All the Beautiful Pieces
by fbeauchamphartz
Summary: Blaine is spending the summer flipping house with his brother Cooper when he comes across an old Victorian House in San Diego, CA that is more than it seems. Inside he finds an unusual collection that once belonged to a mysterious vaudeville ventriloquist. Amidst his collection are two strange life sized puppets that aren't entirely your regular inanimate puppets. Kurt H. Blaine A.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _Warning for mention of anxiety, symptoms of anxiety including fear of the dark, and hoarding._

Blaine stares out the windshield of his borrowed Honda Odyssey, his jaw dropping open, stunned out of his senses at the sight of the disastrous house in front of him. His hands grip the steering wheel for support. His knees knock together, completely out of his control. A low, pitiful whining noise rattles around in the back of his throat. The house to his right, nestled incongruously behind a manicured lawn, carefully pruned rose bushes, and a well-established Mulberry tree, is so incredibly awful that he can't stop looking at it. It's like a horrendous traffic accident – lots of blood and twisted metal, but try as you might you can't make yourself look away.

"What's wrong, squirt?" Cooper Anderson, Blaine's older brother, asks. "Is something wrong with my new investment?"

"Uh, I'm looking at your 'new investment' right now," Blaine groans, sounding strangled and pathetic, but he couldn't care less.

"And…" Cooper asks, his voice an annoying, disembodied presence in Blaine's Bluetooth since there is no way that Cooper Anderson would actually deign to come out to a new project house himself.

He leaves that kind of grunt work to his baby brother, Blaine.

_Cooper Anderson's Complete Home Renovation_ started as a way for Blaine's brother to translate his B-list (to put it kindly) actor status into a steady paycheck. At first, Blaine thought this show would turn into another fad - a superficial hobby that Coop would get really excited about for a few months and then become bored with when the hard work began. Cooper had a long reputation of those – Catamaran racing, model plane building, volunteering at the Greyhound rescue. But this time, Blaine had to give Coop some credit. When he started the show a year or so back, he did research, found a reputable contractor, and learned the ins and outs of foreclosed property auctions. It was the most responsible Cooper had been about something in a long while. He flipped a few houses, got a desirable time slot on a basic cable network, and made a decent amount of money doing it, but the show was dull as dishwater and the ratings tanked. That was, until, Cooper decided to do things his usual way, which basically meant firing every capable person involved with the production of the show, managing everything himself…and soliciting the help of his younger brother.

Cooper purchased the properties, usually through a third party company, and then turned Blaine loose on whatever disaster he had bought. Blaine would perform a preliminary walk thru of the various houses with the help of a wireless webcam. In nearly no time flat, Cooper ended up with a sensational cult following as well as a membership only website. Members to the website got the privilege of watching the live webcam feed and witnessing all the hilarious and embarrassing pitfalls that Blaine suffered. Later on, the feed would be edited for television. The show became a bigger hit than Blaine could ever imagine - which was one of the many reasons why Blaine wanted _nothing_ to do with it.

Blaine made it a strict practice not to participate in any of Cooper's harebrained ideas. This one, being a television show, pretty much screamed, "No! Don't! Turn back!" Blaine had dreams of being on Broadway one day, and he didn't need his brother destroying his reputation before he even had the chance to make one. But Cooper never took _no_ for an answer, and in this case, he knew his brother's Achilles' heel.

College.

Not just any college.

NYADA.

The premier college for musical theater, located in none other than Blaine's dream city – New York.

Blaine was desperate to get there, especially now that their parents decided last minute not to pay for it. It was all right for Blaine to _say_ he wanted to go to NYADA, but in the end, his parents were counting on a more practical college choice, like Stanford or Princeton. They would even bend as far as accepting NYU for something like business or medicine, but not NYADA. No. They didn't want another foolish child with dreams of making it big as a performer making a mockery of the Anderson family name.

Not like Cooper.

Sure, Cooper had managed some bit parts in a few movies and a one-line speaking role on a television series, but before his renovation show took off, his _claim to fame_ as a thespian had been one commercial.

His parents were less than impressed.

Cooper knew Blaine was trying to find a way to save up for college, and truth be told, he felt guilty. He realized that, in a way, he had caused all these problems for Blaine, but it wasn't in Cooper's nature to simply come out and apologize…especially when his idea to have Blaine as a lackey on his show was so much better.

Blaine caved when he realized that Cooper's offer, no matter how destructive it might be to his future career, was his only really hope, especially considering what Cooper was offering to pay him in comparison to working part time at the Lima Bean, which only paid minimum wage plus the occasional tip. Blaine spent most of his free time and all of his school breaks helping Cooper flip houses.

That included the entirety of his summer vacation.

This summer would be Blaine's final hoorah on the show until his next big school break, which prompted the idea to bring Blaine out to the West Coast to do an entire _Sun and Fun_ edition of _Cooper Anderson's Complete Home Renovation. _

Blaine was initially thrilled by the idea. A couple of months at their family's old beach house (God, they hadn't been there in years), spending some time lying out on the sand, relaxing, rescuing his upper arms from their unsightly farmer's tan, and escaping his mom and dad's constant stares of contempt every time he entered a room.

The first three vile houses he renovated in San Diego, however, almost made any fun and relaxation Blaine had planned for this trip completely irrelevant.

But _this_ house – his last house – takes the cake for sure.

"Blai-ney?" Cooper sings through the earpiece, cutting through Blaine's thoughts and the dead air.

"Do you ever _see_ these houses before you buy them, Coop?" Blaine asks. He tilts his head from side to side and cranes his neck to peer out the windshield, refusing to move from his car seat until he absolutely has to.

"Why? Is it the wrong house?" Cooper asks in a panic. "It's the Victorian, right? Please tell me it's the Victorian!"

"It's the Victorian, all right," Blaine affirms with a long, heavy sigh. Or it will be a decent Victorian house once they paint over the hodge-podge of vomit-worthy paint that had been slapped on for God knows how long. The house looks like the whole color scheme was chosen by a drunken toddler. The main body of the house is a bright, fire engine red, the scrolled pillars and the sconces look to be hazard orange, and everything else is either bright blue or deep purple. If the house hadn't been declared a historical land mark, Blaine is sure that the neighbors would have torn it apart panel by panel.

"Then what's the problem?" Cooper sounds worried at the reluctance in his brother's voice, not that Blaine isn't always reluctant. That's part of the shtick. Cooper makes it a point to buy the worst houses he's heard of, sight unseen, because Blaine's initial reaction is a big part of his TV show's draw.

Besides, torturing his younger brother has always been one of Cooper Anderson's favorite past times.

"So, are you inside yet, squirt?" Cooper's voice pipes up over Blaine's Bluetooth. "Because I'm seeing a serious lack of anything interesting on my computer screen here. Of course, I'm not all that tech savvy. Check the feed on your end."

"I'm not in the house yet, Coop," Blaine moans.

"Well…well, why not?" Cooper sputters. "Time's a-wasting here, kiddo. We have a show to put on. Chippity-chop-chop, Blaine!"

Blaine sighs and switches on the portable webcam, focusing the lens on his own face so that Cooper can check the feed.

"There's my handsome little man," Cooper coos, thrilled to tease his baby brother in front of his many dedicated viewers. "Now go and show me the house that's destined to become my newest masterpiece."

Blaine's shoulders slump, weighed down by the inevitable. He opens the car door to step out and stand in front of the house, ready to get the full effect of how awful it truly is, when he is hit with a smell so powerful it forces him back into his seat.

"Ugh! Blech!" He locks the doors and turns on the air conditioner to flush the evil smell out, but that doesn't work the way he hopes. The conditioned air circulates the smell throughout the car. Immediately, the stench starts to stick to the upholstery and his clothes.

Blaine doesn't want to breathe it in any more than he has to, but there is something curious about the smell. Yes, it's disgusting to think that the house stinks so badly he can smell it all the way from his car with the windows rolled up, but now that time has passed, he realizes it isn't altogether a bad smell. It's more odd than bad. Against his better judgment, Blaine takes a deep breath in through his nostrils and holds it in his lungs, shutting his eyes to get a better idea of what the smell reminds him of.

_Melancholy_.

_Bittersweet_.

Like the musty old smell of a funeral home parlor, where each grain of wood, each fiber of carpet seems to be infused with the sorrow, pain, and tears of mourners grieving for loved ones lost.

To put it simply, the house smells…sad.

Regardless, whatever is causing that smell can't be healthy.

Even more than the smell, which is disturbing to say the least, it's the silence that unnerves him.

Blaine had gotten lost on his way here. He had parked in the cul-de-sac on the opposite side of the street and sat for a good twenty minutes checking his GPS before he realized his mistake. Harbor Drive cuts in half with a strip of neighborhood right down its middle. He had ended up on the opposite side. The side he originally parked in is a lively, typical suburban neighborhood, with kids riding their bikes and people in their yards gardening, watering their lawns, talking and laughing, enjoying this beautiful Southern California afternoon.

The cul-de-sac this Victorian house sits in is much the same – the same identical houses, the same green lawns, the same suburban atmosphere - only there are no children playing here, and no busy neighbors tending to their gardens. Blaine looks up at the cerulean sky. Not a single bird passes overhead and there isn't an insect to be seen.

Life seems to avoid this neighborhood and probably for good reason.

Blaine can't shake the ominous feeling that he is being watched.

But something as trivial as the possibility of a supernatural threat on his life will not deter Cooper Anderson from his chance at ratings and equity. Blaine will eventually have to get out of the car and go into the house. He reaches into his glove box and pulls out a dust mask, which Cooper must see since he starts yelling into the earpiece.

"No! Blaine! What are you doing?"

"Coop, I can smell your house all the way from the car," Blaine explains, giving himself permission to be haughty. "I'm protecting myself from whatever lives in the air around this place."

"No, you can't cover your face!" Cooper complains. Blaine might find Cooper's desperation amusing if he wasn't trying to talk him out of keeping himself safe. "You know my viewers tune in to see my dapper brother's handsome face. Your face is my money maker."

"So, you're going to risk my health, and my future as a singer, for ratings?" Blaine argues, annoyed at his brother's overwhelming lack of concern. When he doesn't receive a response, he decides to appeal to one of Cooper's real loves – money. "You know, one stray mold spore gets in my lungs and your insurance premiums take a hit."

"Hey," Cooper says in a sly voice, "it's a risk I'm willing to take.

Blaine rolls his eyes, but he knows better than to let his brother dictate matters of life and death. He squirrels the mask into his back pocket. He won't be on camera the whole time, and it's an easy enough thing to slip on and off without Cooper noticing.

He had to do it for those last three houses.

Blaine grabs the webcam and climbs out of his car again. He takes extra time to make sure the doors are locked and all the windows rolled up, deliberately stalling. Finally, he gives in and walks up to the fun house that smells like heartbreak and woe.

He'd heard this house got no foot traffic. Even when it was put up for auction, few people came by to take a look at it, which is strange considering how popular real Victorian houses are in this area of the country.

Blaine stands for a moment to take it all in. Then he trains the webcam on the house and Cooper laughs like a hyena through Blaine's Bluetooth.

"Holy crap!" he roars. "Stop, Blainer's. Just…just give our audience a moment to appreciate the monstrosity before us."

Blaine scans the scene, starting from the far left and moving slowly to the right.

"What the hell colors are those?" Cooper asks, choking the words out between the most unattractive chortles Blaine has ever heard. "It looks like a carnival funhouse."

"Yeah, well, you sure know how to pick 'em, Coop," Blaine recites in his practiced flat and sour tone. It is one of his many catch phrases that he is required to say through the course of filming. Unoriginal, but it seems to make the viewers happy. Twice in the last six months the phrase _'Pick a Winner, Coop'_ has trended on Twitter.

And Blaine has been a huge part of that.

Yippee.

"You know, this house has a really well-kept lawn to go with that crap paint job."

"The realtor told me that the ladies from the historical society were taking care of the landscaping," Blaine says as he trots up the walk, not that Cooper actually cares, but because Blaine does his best to fill in the silences with informative little tidbits. If anything, maybe he can use it as a way to showcase his professionalism and dedication to the craft - his ability to improvise.

Blaine Anderson – Master of Finding the Silver Lining.

Blaine takes out the keys from his pocket. He had to pick them up directly from the realtor's office. For some reason, the severe, dowdy and unnaturally petite woman wouldn't meet him at the house.

She said quite specifically that she never went down there.

That in itself is not a reassuring testimonial.

Blaine works to unlock the deadbolt, balancing the webcam beneath his chin and pulling the door toward him when the lock won't turn.

"Anyone want to take a bet on what it looks like inside?" Cooper asks, filling up the empty air space while Blaine fumbles with the uncooperative lock. Blaine feels his phone buzz in his pocket which means that Cooper also tweeted that question to his viewers. "Op! Blaine's struggling with the lock! Nobody must have gone in this house in years! This is going to be awful! I can feel it!"

Cooper chuckles wickedly and Blaine rolls his eyes. Blaine isn't sure that he likes this strange, sadistic pleasure Cooper gets from tormenting him like this.

Blaine jiggles the doorknob while turning the key in the lock, cranking it left and right, but it isn't just that the lock itself is stuck. It feels like the door is being held closed from the inside. All of Blaine's inner alarms start going off – in his head where his ears ring with Cooper's inane laughter, in his chest where his heart races so hard that his ribs hurt, in his feet where he shifts weight from one foot to the other, as eager to be in the house and done with this as he is to get into his car and leave.

At the thought of leaving, the door finally opens, shoving in about a foot and then stopping dead. Blaine pushes and pushes, but the door won't budge any farther.

"Uh…Blaine?" Cooper's voice calls through the Bluetooth. "I like your shoes and that lovely sweater vest you're wearing as much as the next guy, but do you think you could hold the webcam _up_ so we can see what's going on? All this bouncing around is making me want to hurl. It's like a scene from _Cloverfield_ or something."

Blaine pulls the webcam out from beneath his chin and sticks it around the corner of the door. If he can't make his way into the room, at least Cooper and his audience can see what he's up against.

"Well…that's a…dark room you're showing us there, Blainers," Cooper teases in a straight voice. "In fact, that's an incredible shade of grey we're seeing at the moment. Do you think you could open a curtain or turn on a light there, squirt?"

"I'm…hmpf…I'm trying…" Blaine grumbles, struggling to keep the webcam aloft while fighting to open the door. After a few backbreaking heaves, he gives up and shimmies through the narrow crack he's already made, sucking in his stomach to keep from snagging his sweater vest on the edge of the door. He slips through the opening completely - having to stop a second to maneuver his leg around the bend - and stumbles inside. His right foot comes in contact with the floor, his left foot raised behind him, and the front door immediately slams shut.

The room he's standing in goes from grey to black, and everything becomes eerily silent.

Even Cooper's chuckle dies to muffled breaths over Blaine's Bluetooth.

Blaine stands completely still, praying that nothing runs at him from out of the shadows.

Of course it doesn't help in the slightest that he had stayed up late last night streaming Stephen King's mini-series _Rose Red_. What would ever possess him to watch a show about a haunted house hours before coming here he will never know.

His eyes adjust slowly to the lack of light. They water excessively, clouded by thick layers of dust that he can smell and taste with every breath he takes. He holds his breath, sure that any monsters hiding in the dark will hear even the slightest inhale.

"Blaine?" Cooper whispers harshly in his ears. "Do…something…"

"I'm…trying…" Blaine whispers back with an added huff of annoyance.

Blaine finally dares to turn his head, looking left and right, sweeping the webcam around the room. He reaches out his free hand, his arm shaking as he tries to stay balanced on one foot, and feels for the light switch on the wall by the door. His fingers come in contact with it and he flips it up and down madly, but with no results.

"Coop…I thought you called SDG&E and had the power switched on," Blaine says, continuing to flip the switch rapidly in hopes that a loose wire somewhere will spark after enough tries and that the lights will flick on.

"I did," Cooper responds in an unnecessarily low voice. "Maybe there's a blown fuse or a busted circuit."

Blaine whimpers. He's not looking forward to negotiating this mess without any light. He attempts to put his elevated foot down, his knee sore from tensing to keep it bent up, but everywhere he steps he feels bulky items in his way, unwilling to be pushed aside. He finds a loose…something…and shoves at it, sliding it across the floor about a foot and making a space to take a step.

"Okay…" Blaine says, both triumphant and anxious as he creeps across the room in this manner. He can't see anything but shapes and silhouettes that change when he relocates some blurry mystery object. He ignores the sounds of shuffling that echo through the room in response to his movements, keeping his eyes fixed on a single ray of light streaming in through a crack in the curtains. Blaine counts his steps, trying to estimate how big the room is by his strides across the floor.

"Can you see anything?" Cooper asks conversationally, keeping the show moving along while Blaine picks his way at a snail's pace through the unseen mess.

"Not yet," Blaine replies, only a hair louder than a whisper because he's still wary of talking too loudly - some hidden childhood fear of the dark suddenly rearing its ugly head. "I'm trying to make it to the curtains on the windows, but this room is large and packed with stuff." Blaine looks down at his feet, aiming the webcam at the floor. "Do you see anything, Coop?"

"Naah, not yet, squirt…" Blaine smiles when he hears Cooper sound mildly concerned on his behalf, "just a really, really dark blur."

"Congratulations, Coop," Blaine chirps, tripping over something that clangs metallically when it comes in contact with his foot, "you purchased a void."

Nervous laughter follows Blaine's comment and he smiles wider.

It's nice to know that every so often his big brother actually cares.

"If you come across any television sets, don't turn them on," Cooper warns. "I wouldn't want you getting sucked in and crossing through to the other side."

Blaine shakes his head.

"_Poltergeist_? Really?" Blaine groans, hopping a few steps and finally making his way to the window. "You _do_ know you just aged yourself, don't yo-"

"I see some light there, squirt," Cooper cuts in, smoothly evading the mention of his age. "Did you finally make it to the window, or do you feel like walking around in the dark for another ten minutes?"

Blaine doesn't answer, having deftly slipped the dust mask over his mouth and nose, preparing to open the curtain, which he is sure has to be caked with dust.

He's right.

With his free hand he pulls open the heavy fabric of the first curtain, watching as dust motes swirl in front of his eyes, dimming the sun's light as it fights to pierce the grime on the windows. He moves aside the second curtain, stepping over what he can see in this new light are various metal and wooden objects, peculiar faces peering up at him, staring with chipped and empty eyes.

Dirty light is better than no light at all, but Blaine has a hard time making sense of what he's seeing. He has been in houses before that had rooms piled high with all sorts of trash – food containers, two-liter bottles, dirty plates, newspapers and magazines with yellowing and cracked pages, even one house with rooms stuffed from floor to ceiling with filthy used diapers, but what he is currently looking at is downright bizarre. Everywhere underfoot there are twisted limbs, contorted bodies, orphaned heads, and a mass of brightly colored clothing and costumes. They're all small – child sized. He makes his way to the next set of windows and opens the curtains there. Light floods the room, defused through the layer of dried dirt on the glass, giving it a sepia hue, but with better illumination, Blaine can see the room clearly.

Toys…piles and piles of toys - dolls, puppets, trains, cars, stuffed animals by the pound. Some are stacked along the walls, mint in their boxes, but the majority lay in heaps around the floor, overflowing mountains and brightly colored dunes, filling the room from corner to corner.

"Holy..."

Cooper's voice cuts off when Blaine turns and focuses the camera on a long hallway, as foreboding as the living room but inconceivably darker. Blaine swallows hard, knowing that's the next place Cooper will tell him to go.

"Whoa, Blaine…look at that…"

_Yeah, yeah,_ Blaine thinks, taking a step in that direction, _I'm going._

"Hold up," Cooper says, stopping him, "go back to the toys on the floor."

Blaine breathes a sigh of relief at his temporary reprieve. He aims the camera down, trying to get the best view he can in the low light of the toys scattered all over the floor.

"Are those made of metal?" Cooper asks.

"Yup," Blaine says, moving the mask away from his mouth so he can speak. "Well, some of them. Some of them appear to be wood."

"Get a closer shot, Blaine. I want to look at those."

Blaine moves from toy to toy, holding the webcam still for a few seconds so his brother can get some decent screen captures. He hears Cooper typing frantically, researching something on his computer.

"Are you seeing this, Blaine?" Cooper asks excitedly over the earpiece. "Those tin banks? That's some early 1900s shit. And there're loads of them. The stuff in that room alone could be worth a fortune! Imagine what we might find in the rest of the house?"

_We,_ Blaine thinks, shaking his head. _Right_.

Blaine hears more frantic typing, quiet cheering, and some scribbling and muttering as Cooper takes down notes on his end of the line. "Okay, Blaine," Cooper continues, not revealing any of the information he uncovered on his web search, "why don't you head down that hallway and see what else we're dealing with?"

Blaine lifts the webcam to show the view of the hallway, partially blocked by a mound of what looks like original _Care Bears,_ and columns of stacked board games. Blaine's eyes catch sight of a familiar yellow box with the word _OPERATION_ written across the side in big, red block letters. It immediately brings to mind all those days he spent kneeling at the coffee table in his living room, playing the game over and over…even if he played mostly by himself.

_Good times_, he thinks. _Good times_.

At least he has that happy memory to carry with him into the afterlife, because he is fairly certain that he is going to be murdered somewhere in this house.

Blaine has never been in a house before that has so much emotion attached to it. In his property searches, Cooper gravitates toward houses previously owned by hoarders since they have the potential to be the most horrendous, but the one thing Blaine has learned by visiting these houses is that hoarders have a tendency to attach importance to the most off-the-wall things.

It's not the item, of course, but what or who it represents – and the inability to let go.

Maybe he doesn't always understand the reason behind the hoard, but it breaks his heart to see it every time.

Hoarding toys, though…this he can understand. It's like holding tight to the best part of a person's life – their childhood.

Blaine makes his way to the hall, opening the last two sets of curtains along the way until the room is nearly, but not quite, cheerful.

Something is still troubling him. Something the immense dark wasn't hiding after all.

The feeling of being watched is lingering with him, but it's joined by a feeling of being called.

As insane as it sounds, Blaine feels there is something in this house that wants him to find it.

He gets closer to the hallway and he can see that the extreme darkness of this narrow pathway is an illusion – the mountain of toys blocks the living room light head on and throws shadows along the floor, but as soon as he turns into it, it becomes a tunnel of bright light. Behind him, the sunlight in the living room extends its way to the hallway. Blaine sees square windows lining the walls, as grimy as the living room windows but letting in more light as the sun moves across the sky. This space is littered with toys on the floor like the living room, but less so because here they also hang from the walls.

"Blaine, is that a puppet?" Cooper asks.

"I think so." Blaine takes a step back.

"Blaine, turn to the puppet on the wall - the one with the red hair."

Blaine turns to the wall where a row of puppets hang from their wires by thumb tacks imbedded into the plaster.

"That…that looks like an original Howdy Doody puppet. That's got to be worth some money. What do you say, Blainers?"

"I imagine so," Blaine agrees, taking off his mask completely and stuffing it back in his pocket for the time being since the air here doesn't look quite as dusty. It's getting sweaty with that thing on, anyway.

"Don't you know?" Cooper sounds distracted, and Blaine hears Cooper typing again on his end of the line. "Aren't you all puppet savvy and whatnot?"

"I _make_ puppets," Blaine corrects his brother, moving on to the next puppet down the line, "I don't collect them."

"Same diff," Cooper comments. "It's still creepy as hell. Let's see the next one."

The next puppet is an animal puppet, but what kind of animal Blaine can't really tell. It might be a horse…or a dog…or a bear. It's a mess of brown fur with eyes and a pointy sort of snout. He vaguely recognizes it as being from an old kid's TV show. He saw it in a documentary on Vaudeville performers on PBS. Blaine looks down the length of the wall ahead of him to where it dips back into the semi-darkness and sees more animal puppets, most of them from the same show.

The hallway leads straight to the dining room. From where Blaine stands he sees only two pieces of furniture - a round wooden table sitting right at the entrance, it's top covered in newspapers and photo albums, and a matching China cabinet standing up against a far wall. This room, too, is full of toys, stacked on the floor and along the walls, but the boxes of these toys look brighter, the colors crisper. These toys are newer – Barbie dolls and G. I. Joes from the last thirty or forty years perhaps. There are so many that Blaine can't pick out one specific doll or action figure character from the lot. But this room has one interesting feature that the living room and hallway didn't have.

There are posters all over the walls, framed beneath glass.

"Jesus H...we can open our own toy store with this much crap," Cooper mumbles, but Blaine has begun to ignore him. He focuses the webcam on the stacks of boxes, but his own focus drifts to the posters. They're hard to see through the inches of dust obscuring his view, but they look like antique theater posters. He leans in close, careful not to breathe and disturb the micro-organisms snoozing away amidst the crud. He narrows his eyes and tries to peer at the words or the pictures, but the glare from the sunlight reflects a sunburst into his eyes. He starts thinking of a way to clean the dust off and examine the poster properly but a chuckle in his earpiece tips him off that his brother has made a new discovery and Blaine is going to have to investigate.

"Blaine, I'm looking at the floor plan that the realtor emailed me, and there should be two doors in this room – one with a staircase that goes to the upper level, and one with a staircase that goes down to…(a thread of recorded sinister music plays and Blaine puts a hand to his head, squeezing his eyes shut to banish the headache that's starting to grow) the basement."

Blaine opens his eyes and looks around. He finds the doors quickly, situated between the China cabinet and a shuttered window. He walks over to the window and pulls at the clasp on the shutter. The metal hook is rusted almost completely into the looped eye it has been buried into for decades, but Blaine shakes the hook back and forth until it slides free. He pulls open the shutters and smiles. This window isn't nearly as covered in dirt as the others, and now the room is brightly lit.

"So here's the question," Coopers rambles on, "do we send Blaine upstairs to take a look at the bedrooms, or do we send him downstairs to the basement?"

Blaine hears more tinny old tyme horror music with dramatic organ notes plying in a minor chord. He can't help but laugh. This whole thing is so ridiculous but at least Cooper has found his niche in the world.

Blaine opens the doors one at a time. He knows he's going to be sent to the basement so he decides to hurry things along. The staircases are pitch black, but the longer he spends in the house, the less foreboding it seems. He feels like he's being led along - like a hand is guiding him - and when he opens the door revealing the stairs leading down to the basement, he wastes no time going down them.

"Hey, wait!" Cooper objects. "We didn't finish voting!"

"Too late," Blaine quips back, his feet scuffling on the concrete steps. "You took too long." He jumps down off the last step and is encompassed by another sea of pure inky nothingness, but this time he doesn't hesitate. He feels around the walls, looking for a fuse box as he makes his way deeper into the room. The air down in the basement is colder, less inviting, and the walls are damp, but that sensation of being called is stronger down here.

It feels urgent. He's actually excited by what he might find down here.

Blaine's hand crawls across the wall until he hits a small, covered metal box.

"I think I found a fuse box…" Blaine grunts, pulling at the box, trying to find a way to open it. He tugs at it left and right. He considers hitting it with his fist, but the cover pops off and falls to the floor. Inside the box is a single, long-handled switch. Blaine grabs it and pulls it in an attempt to flip it up. It takes a little shimmying before it flies upward with a loud _click_.

Blaine leaps back and waits for the lights.

Nothing happens.

He hears a buzz…then a pop.

A light blinks overhead – off…on, off…on – with a spitting noise that's unnerving. The buzzing gets louder. The popping sound increases in tempo and becomes a hum. The blinking light clicks on and starts to burn bright.

The room is lit with the bright yellow light of a single bulb. When Blaine can finally see without spots dancing in front of his eyes – a side effect of jumping from the terminus between dark and bright – his jaw drops.

Down in this dreary basement is a fully-equipped workshop. Lined up in rows are several sturdy work benches, each one running the width of the room and covered in tools – newer shop saws, drills and lathes sitting alongside older, antique picks and files, and some handmade metal tools. On a final bench pushed up against the far wall are wooden blanks in all shapes and sizes, and colorful bolts of cloth printed in dated patterns. Above it, more puppets hang from pegs on the wall – bare wooden skeletons, some with porcelain heads, undecorated, unpainted, and unclothed.

"Come on, Blaine," Cooper says, reminding Blaine that he's not alone, "pan around and let us get a good look. What's with all the tools?"

Blaine walks toward a saw that has the partial remains of an unfinished cut piece (an arm…maybe a leg) beneath its blade. The saw looks almost brand new, and the wooden appendage appears freshly cut with a mound of sawdust collected nearby, as though some craftsman might have been working on it yesterday.

"I think…" Blaine moves down the workbench to examine a lathe, "this is a workshop for making puppets."

"Geesh," Cooper says with a twinge of disgust, "this guy must have had a severe puppet fetish."

"I don't usually like to agree with you, Coop," Blaine says with more fascination than disgust, "but you might be right."

Blaine's webcam trails over the many benches, others holding saws stopped in the middle of unfinished projects. In the corner sits a small, squat, oblong kiln, about the size of the average bedside dresser. He runs his fingers over the smooth surface as he passes it by. He stops to peruse the contents of a few cardboard boxes with their tops hanging open. There are more tools, more wood pieces, more body parts and heads than Blaine has ever seen in his lifetime, definitely more than they had to work with in the arts and crafts class at McKinley. Blaine lifts the lens to take in the view of the puppets on the walls, the brightly colored bolts, and then another door. He tilts his head as he looks at it. He's drawn to it, but he doesn't know why. As Blaine walks toward it, he can hear the rustle of papers and the clattering of computer keys on Cooper's end of the line.

"Uh, Blaine?"

"Yeah?" Blaine approaches it as he speaks. There's a strong feeling in his head that what he's searching for, what's searching for him, is somewhere behind this door. He reaches out his hand for the knob when Cooper speaks again.

"Be careful when you open that door, Blainers."

There's a tone in Cooper's voice that sends a chill down Blaine's spine.

"Why is that?" he asks, his fingers resting on the doorknob while he waits for an answer.

"Umm…because that door isn't on the blueprints."

Blaine's brow furrows, but he doesn't remove his hand.

"What do you mean it's not on the blueprints?"

"That means there isn't supposed to be a door there, Blaine. No room, no closet, no staircase. It's not listed, so just be careful."

Blaine swallows hard and nods. He understands his brother's trepidation. Homeowners often do unpermitted renovations on their homes, and a lot of them are unsafe, but Blaine feels very sure that he needs to open the door in front of him.

He grabs the doorknob and holds it tight, turning it slowly.

The action of the tumblers is smooth, not sticky and rusted like the knobs and fixtures in the rest of the house. He turns it till he hears everything unwind, and the door gives. It creaks open, swinging outward easily. The light from the basement breaches the opening and a shaft of it falls over the floor, filling the rest of the room on the left and right with shadows. There's carpet covering the ground in a deep crimson color. Blaine follows the path of the light with his webcam up from the floor and looks further into the room.

Cooper sees it before Blaine does and screams with a voice of pure terror.

"Holy fucking shit, Blaine!" he hears Cooper yell into the earpiece. "Oh my God! Are you seeing this? Go back! Go back down!"

Blaine pans down, following the webcam with his eyes, and his heart leaps up into his throat.

Lying on the floor at his feet is a partially dismembered body with a smashed in human head.


	2. Chapter 2

It's Cooper's frantic voice screaming in Blaine's ear that makes him jump more than anything else. Cooper has a surprisingly shrill voice for a grown man; it falls somewhere between the sharp cry of a toddler who has skinned his knee and the wail of an old school screen siren from a black and white monster movie. Blaine scrabbles to grab the Bluetooth earpiece, yanking the device out of his ear in an attempt to salvage what little hearing he has left.

Yes, the head lying on the floor, staring blankly up at him with one pale blue eye might look like a real human head, but Blaine knows right away that it isn't from the way the light reflects off of its smooth surface, and the missing eye socket, the area surrounding it shattered in an unnatural star pattern. No, the head isn't human. It's porcelain – carefully tinted bisque made to look like human skin. It absorbs the ambient light around it and glows with an ethereal quality, giving off a halo of pinkish-white.

Blaine waits for the ringing in his ears to die down completely before he puts the Bluetooth back in his ear, catching Cooper mid-ramble.

"…and did you see, I mean, oh my God! That's…just…creepy as hell!" Cooper's excitement when he makes that statement startles Blaine. It shouldn't, seeing as Cooper has crossed the line into the macabre more than once on this walk-thru alone, not to mention other times in other houses when Cooper had said that he hoped Blaine would uncover something gruesome beneath the piles of trash, like mummified cats or cockroach swarms.

_As a joke_, Cooper had emphasized, but still…

Luckily, Blaine had yet to stumble on even one of those.

Would Cooper honestly have been excited if Blaine had found an actual dead human body? Sometimes Blaine wonders exactly how far Cooper is willing to go for the sake of ratings.

At this precarious moment, Blaine feels it's safer not to ask.

Blaine raises the webcam up along the shaft of light and sees more scattered remains, each one appearing remarkably human at first blush, but upon closer inspection, just as manufactured as the first.

"Let's see more of the room, Blaine," Cooper commands. "Get it all. Pan around."

Blaine feels around the walls inside the doorway to the left and to the right, trying to find a light switch, but there doesn't seem to be one. He opens the door behind him wider to let more light from the workshop fill the room. With more than a single shaft of light to work with, he can see from wall to wall of the small room with ease. There are more body parts on the floor, including a second human-sized head - this one with piercing green eyes instead of blue. Blaine takes a step through the door, focusing his webcam on each piece individually, and notices that all of these parts are exclusively life-sized. The body parts are jointed, meticulously painted, made to look real and human, but they are puppets – life-sized puppets.

Human-looking puppets.

Blaine steps carefully over the broken limbs and shattered bits of porcelain to give Cooper and his viewers the full effect of this bizarre spectacle. Then he peels his eyes away from the floor to scan the rest of the space. On opposite sides of the room, there are two beds – no more than army-issued metal cots by the looks of them – one on each end, pushed up against the wall.

Blaine slowly approaches the bed to the left. It's made to be slept in, covered in sheets and a thin wool blanket, with a pillow at the head. Blaine glances over to the matching bed across the way and sees that it, too, is made. On both beds, the covers are thrown back, indicating that they must have been slept in at one point.

Blaine turns back to the bed he's standing in front of, keeping the webcam trained on the bed as he examines the damp, grey, stone wall. He sees marks cut diagonally into the stone – marks filled with shimmery pink porcelain dust.

Marks that look distinctly like fingernail scratches.

Blaine's entire body fills with a sudden cold. It starts where his hair stands on end and washes down to his feet. He swallows hard when it starts to fill his throat, knotting into a hard lump, choking him.

This room isn't a closet or an extension of the workshop.

This is a cell.

Blaine doesn't want to be an alarmist. He usually saves the drama for Cooper, and if it hadn't been for the genuine sound of nervousness in Cooper's voice when he warned Blaine about the room not showing up on the blueprints, Blaine might consider this all an elaborate set-up. It wouldn't be beyond Cooper's scope to contrive some kind of haunted house inspired mayhem to freak Blaine out on-air, but Cooper Anderson isn't _that_ good an actor.

Blaine considers all of these things as part of a bigger picture.

If this _was_ a cell, who was kept in here with these scattered puppet parts littered all over the floor? Was this some kind of weird sweatshop, with the original owner of the house keeping a couple of poor slaves locked down here to create puppets to feed his demented doll fetish?

Besides the beds and the broken puppets, there's not all that much to look at in this room, and Blaine can't help but feel sorry for whoever might have been locked in here. Of course, he could be jumping to conclusions, letting the ghastly atmosphere of this ancient house get on his nerves. Whoever owned this house was obviously a toy fanatic who happened to have a healthy (for lack of a better term) puppet obsession. From the look of the workshop – the order, the organization, the wealth of materials, the half-finished projects – this space is the heart of the house. The owner most likely spent the majority of their time here. Maybe this room was a bedroom built to be as close to the workshop as possible. If the bedrooms upstairs look anything like the living room, the hallway, and the dining room, maybe this was the only place available to sleep.

Blaine sure hopes that's the case.

He pans the camera one last time so that Cooper can get all of the footage he needs, but without realizing it, his eyes keep returning to the puppet head on the floor – the one with the soft, sorrowful, blue eyes. He shifts his gaze over to the green-eyed puppet, but he doesn't stare at it as long as he stares at the first. There's something in those vacant eyes, which change subtly from blue to grey in the artificial light, that haunts him, and he can't shake the feeling, even though reason and logic argue to the contrary, that this beautifully morose puppet is begging for his help.

Cooper's voice pipes back up through the Bluetooth.

"It's like…night of the living dead…creepy…creepy ass dolls…"

Blaine rolls his eyes at his brother's unoriginality.

_My brother, the actor, ladies and gentlemen._

Of course, Cooper was always better at reciting other people's lines, not so much with the coming up of his own.

"Well, let's get out of the Valley of the Dolls and head upstairs to the bedrooms. What do you say, Blainey-boy?"

Blaine nods, even though Cooper can't see him, but Blaine is convinced that the puppet did, that the blue-eyed puppet with the sad glass eyes is now watching Blaine pick his way through the debris to get to the door.

The puppet is watching him leave…and Blaine can't do it.

He doesn't understand why, but he can't leave it. He can't condemn it to a promise of loneliness in the dark, or to the trash heap when the cleaning crew comes to the house tomorrow.

"Come on, little bro. This is giving me the super creeps!"

"I want them, Coop," Blaine says without really thinking about the consequences, but it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter that tons of Internet viewers heard him. It doesn't matter that Cooper will use this to his advantage. Blaine has an urgent need to rescue this puppet from this horrible house – to not abandon it alone in the dark.

"What?" Cooper asks, the delight in his voice exceedingly evident.

"You heard me, Cooper," Blaine says. "I want these puppets."

"Turn the webcam around so we can see you," Cooper sings. Blaine drops down onto the bed - the old, stiff springs creaking with his added weight.

_Here we go._

Blaine turns the webcam on his own face and adopts his most frustrated, put-off face, complete with a pouty mouth.

This is another part of the game. If he plays it Cooper's way, he gets what he wants, and Blaine wants those puppets.

"But, Blaine," Cooper says in an obnoxiously condescending voice, "these disturbing puppet-things could be worth a lot of money, like the ones upstairs. We can fix them up and _voila_!"

"I don't think they are," Blaine negotiates, hoping that instead of doing something to make Blaine look like an ass that maybe, for once, Cooper will simply listen to reason. "I think these puppets were made more recently than those other puppets. And look here…" Blaine gets up off the bed and walks over to the green-eyed puppet, focusing the webcam on its smug face, "look at the varnish work on this puppet head. It's mismatched. I'm not sure that can be fixed. No collector in their right mind would buy it. There doesn't look like there are enough salvageable pieces in here to make one complete puppet, not to mention two. So, my taking these off your hands won't eat into your profits at all."

He turns the webcam back on his own face and waits for Cooper's response.

A long silence meets his well thought-out argument, then the recorded sound of crickets chirping, and Blaine sighs.

He knows it didn't fly.

"What do you want, Coop?" Blaine asks, running a hand through his sweaty curls.

"You know what I want, Blaine," Cooper replies, and Blaine sighs again. "You know how this works. Make me a deal."

This is part of a newer segment in Cooper's show called _Blaine Makes a Deal_. In his mind, Blaine can see the graphic that Cooper already has cued up flashing across his face on Cooper's screen.

Cooper devised this new form of torture a few weeks ago when Blaine had asked to buy a vintage upright piano from one of the other San Diego project houses. Blaine comes up with a compelling argument for what he wants. Cooper retaliates with a reason for why he needs to sell said item (to recoup costs because they are _way_ over budget, because it's worth more to the build than to Blaine, because Cooper is considering keeping it for himself, yadda-yadda-yadda). After some bickering and banter back and forth, Blaine gets his keepsake, but in return Blaine does something for Cooper – something embarrassing.

In the case of the piano, Blaine had to complete the rest of the renovation for the house wearing a chicken costume, which sucked because San Diego had been experiencing an unseasonal heat wave his first week there. But the torment was fortunately short lived and now Blaine has a piano.

After that episode, Cooper begged Blaine to find something in the next house that he wanted. Anything. It didn't matter if he really wanted it or not. Apparently, viewer response to the segment was so overwhelming that Cooper was desperate to repeat that accidental success.

At the next house, Blaine obliged, asking for a Wedgewood Jasperware music box. He had spotted it amidst a mass of cheesy faux Hummel statuettes and broken Happy Meal toys.

The music box, with its delicate pink coloring and the stark white figure of a woman carved on the lid, reminded him of his mother. She had collected music boxes as a young girl, but between going away to college, and then changing states, and finally getting married, they had all been lost or broken.

Blaine thought that he could give this one to her if she ever spoke to him again.

He paid for it by having to dress as Shirley Temple, complete with a rainbow-swirl lollipop prop, red patent leather Mary Janes, and a curly blonde wig.

"Fine, Cooper," Blaine says, "but here's the deal - I want all the pieces in this room and anything I think I might need to repair them."

"That's a hefty haul," Cooper says. "I'm not sure I can come up with a costume ridiculous enough to cover all that…unless you're willing to do the rest of the remodel _in only a diaper_…"

"Nope," Blaine says, "I have something better. Something you'd be stupid to refuse."

"Oooo," Cooper coos, "better than my little brother running around in a diaper with a pacifier in his mouth?"

Blaine pauses and makes a face.

"Oh my God, Cooper," Blaine says, pulling back and shaking his head, "what the hell is wrong with you?"

Cooper clears his throat.

"You…uh…you said you had something better…"

Blaine keeps an eyebrow raised in disbelief as he continues.

"In return, I…" Blaine's eyes drift back to the puppet's face, which insanely enough has started to look hopeful. Can that really be it, or is something in the air he's breathing getting to him? "…I'll give you my salary from the build, and my commission."

Another silence.

"What?" Cooper sounds surprised, and this time he isn't joking.

"That's right," Blaine says, feeling the tables turn in his favor, "_everything_ that I was going to make on this build."

Blaine can hear Cooper breathe but nothing else – no clicking of the computer keys, no scribbling notes, no recorded sound effects.

Cooper is rarely ever speechless, and Blaine wishes he could be there to see the look on his brother's face.

Blaine realizes that what he's doing is ludicrous. There is no way these broken puppets are worth what his brother pays him. And what about NYADA? Why is he willing to put his future in jeopardy for this…this junk? Blaine can't answer that. If he were to voice all of that out loud, he might actually see how asinine his decision is.

But where intelligent arguments in every form should prevail, they are snuffed out by the feeling that this is what's right.

"Blaine," Cooper says, sounding more like his older brother than the conceited actor Blaine is used to dealing with, "I can't…"

"Cooper," Blaine interrupts, worried that Cooper is about to mature without warning and put a kibosh on the whole deal, "I want them. This is important to me."

Cooper sighs. It's heavy and unamused, but Cooper recovers quickly the way he usually does, and the mega ego he's so famous for returns.

"Well, congratulations, Blaine!" Cooper says in his best game show announcer voice. "You have won a whole bunch of broken doll parts and a stigma that will follow you around for the rest of your life!"

"Thank you, Coop." Blaine shakes his head and flips the webcam back around. "As always, you are far too generous."

"You're welcome. Now that that's settled, would you mind doing your benevolent brother one teensy little favor?"

"Name it," Blaine says, too excited to be worried about what Cooper might have in mind.

"Can you get the fuckity-fuck-fuck out of that basement?"

Blaine laughs, the sound ricocheting off the walls with a hollow echo.

"Sure."

Blaine is unexpectedly relieved that Cooper agreed to let him have the puppet pieces. Though what would Cooper have actually been able to do to stop him, with him in Los Angeles and Blaine in San Diego? He _might_ drive down, but knowing Cooper that was highly unlikely. Now that the puppets are his, Blaine's reluctant to leave them. He wants to take them back to the beach house and work on them right away, but he still has the rest of the house to deal with.

He hopes there's nothing upstairs that wants him to take it home. He doesn't have much more to bargain with, and Cooper isn't going to let him get away with not being embarrassed twice.

The next time, Blaine _will_ be wearing a diaper.

Blaine doesn't feel quite so guilty when he leaves the basement room this time, looking over his shoulder once to lock eyes with the blue-eyed puppet, silently reassuring it that he'll be right back.

It's much easier to negotiate the house now that the electricity is switched on. Lights spring up everywhere and whatever specters had been hiding in the shadows are banished by the light. Blaine comes up out of the basement staircase and through the door to the dining room. He peeks down the hallway into the living room and can see the menacing shapes and silhouettes for what they are – toys and puppets and stuffed animals and junk.

With the flip of one switch, Blaine has brought the house back to life and exorcised the demons.

"Okay," Blaine says, with an added spring in his step as he heads up to the upper level of the house, "I am going up the staircase. I believe you said the bedrooms are up here?" Blaine slips back into TV personality mode, more comfortable with his surrounding now that he can see where he is going.

"That would be correct," Cooper answers. "There should be three bedrooms, a bathroom, and a door that leads to the attic."

"I take it I'm going to the attic?"

"Exactly."

There's a distracted catch to Cooper's voice. It's not as teasing as before. Blaine tries to imagine what might be bothering him. This remodel is going to be Blaine's last house for a while, and on top of that, it's their most ambitious project house to date. If Blaine can help Cooper pull this off, it puts Cooper in line to make some worthwhile profit for his investment.

Blaine sees how that might be daunting, but his brother doesn't buckle easily under pressure. It seems kind of odd for him to mellow out now.

Blaine reaches the top of the staircase and is faced with awful avocado-green carpet on the hallway floor and faded pale-gold paint on the walls, but Cooper doesn't rise to the challenge, and for the first time ever, Blaine fills in.

"My God, Coop. It looks like they hired the last guy who decorated your condo to do the upper level here," Blaine jokes. "What was his name?"

"Hey, no hating on Carlos," Cooper says. "It was either let him decorate my condo or marry his sister."

"Coop, Coop, Coop," Blaine scolds with a tsk, "you need to learn when to keep it in your pants." Blaine makes his way to the last door at the end of the hall – the door he assumes will lead to the attic. In a house this old, maybe there are any possums nesting up there…or maybe bats.

That would bring the old Cooper back.

Blaine stops short. This house is seriously messing with his mind. What the hell is he thinking? He's not going to contract rabies to cheer his brother up!

The attic turns out to be nothing too exciting. It's a smaller space than it looks from the outside. The door opens to a staircase that leads up to a tiny room, perfectly square, with neatly stacked boxes and a few older furnishings. Cooper says nothing about them, which is good. Blaine plans to bring this place back to its original splendor, and as many of the furnishings unique to the house that he can use, the better.

"Did you want me to check out any of these boxes, Coop?" Blaine asks, hanging around on the top stair and peering at the boxes, trying to find any writing. He sees some indecipherable scrawling, like symbols, or maybe shorthand, but nothing he can decipher.

"Nah," Coop says. "This looks a little too normal for my taste. Let's get to the bedrooms."

"Still hoping for some mummified cats?" Blaine asks, bounding down the staircase.

"Aren't I always?"

Blaine leaves the attic stairs and walks back out into the hallway. He stops in front of the first door, reaching for the doorknob and letting his hand linger on the polished brass. It winks up at him, out of place in this house where every surface is covered in a thick layer of dust and gunge.

"Are you getting any ideas for how we're going to remake this monstrosity?" Cooper asks. "Or are you going to hire a decorator so you can have more quality time to spend with your creepy puppets?"

"I would like to bring it back to its original design scheme," Blaine explains, brushing off the creepy puppet comment. "I figure that I'll do some research, Google pictures of the house in its heyday. We have to clear out all the stuff first. That's going to be the bulk of the work. It's my experience that the majority of the mess is in the bed…rooms…"

Blaine turns the knob and pushes the door open as he speaks, shoving in harder then he needs, expecting to encounter a large mound of stuff blocking the entrance. The door flies open and Blaine falls forward into the room, fumbling the webcam one-handed but catching it before it hits the ground.

"Blaine?" Cooper calls through the earpiece. "Are you alright, squirt?"

"Yeah," Blaine answers, righting the webcam so Cooper can see. "I kind of expected that door to be harder to open, but…"

His sentence cuts off again as he surveys the room he's standing in.

"It's…clean…" Cooper says, watching the view from Blaine's webcam, staring at a room that has been well cared for.

_Preserved_ seems like a more accurate term.

The room is simply decorated by modern standards, but it was probably considered stylish in its time. There's a large bed in the far corner - a full-sized mattress set in a mahogany frame, with a matching dresser and wardrobe standing against the wall by its side. On the wall above the dresser hang pennants from old baseball teams in the American League – the Chicago White Sox, the Detroit Tigers, the New York Giants. Alongside those pennants on the wall hangs a framed jersey that Blaine doesn't recognize. It's a cream-colored baseball jersey that miraculously doesn't appear to have faded with age. It has maroon pinstripes running vertically and the name _Smythe_ sewn across the shoulders.

The jersey doesn't look like a professional jersey.

It looks like it was made for a child.

Above the pennants is a baseball bat mounted in a wooden box.

"Look up there, Blaine," Cooper says with a touch of awe. "Is that a genuine…"

"Louisville Slugger? It looks like it." The bat is positioned high above Blaine's head, too high for him to see it closely. He doesn't want to step up onto any of the furniture, so he raises the webcam over his head for Cooper to get a better look.

Cooper gasps.

"It's signed, Blainey! That might be Mel Ott's signature."

"That would make sense," Blaine says. "He played for the New York Giants, and there's a New York Giants pennant on the wall."

Blaine hears Cooper typing on his computer again before he speaks.

"Let's go to the next room, Blaine. I bet the real disaster is in there."

Blaine takes one final sweep of the bedroom with his webcam before he heads for the next one. Blaine is met by another polished doorknob and it confuses him. With all the clutter downstairs making it so difficult to walk around, who would bother to come up here to clean the doorknobs or to keep that one room spotless?

Blaine doesn't push as hard on this door when he opens it, and it, too, swings open effortlessly.

This bedroom is as clean as the one before it. It has a similar mahogany bed frame, along with its matching dresser and wardrobe, but with a few additional touches. There's an old wicker dress form in the corner of the room and cherry wood sewing table next to it with an antique _Singer_ sewing machine sitting on top. There is no sports memorabilia on these walls. These walls are covered in posters, framed like the ones downstairs, but the glass on these is spotless.

Blaine goes down the line of posters, reading off the names.

"_Porgy and Bess…Arabella…The Eternal Road…_these are old operas from the thirties," Blaine supplies. He walks to the dresser, where a leather box covered in deep purple velvet sits. Using only his fingertips on the metal latch, he opens the lid and aims the webcam inside.

"So, that's a sewing box," Cooper says. "Are we thinking a son and a daughter?"

"That's a rather sexist assumption." Blaine turns away from the dresser and walks toward the wardrobe, to see if his brother might be right.

"True, but this stuff is from the thirties," Cooper says. "If there was ever a time to be sexist…"

"You make a valid point," Blaine interrupts, pulling a hanger from the closet with a suit hanging off it and carrying it to the bed to lay it out gently, "but I believe this room belonged to a boy, so…"

"A boy into sewing and musical theater," Cooper chuckles. "You two could have been friends."

"Yeah," Blaine agrees, running his hand lightly over the expertly tailored suit – a suit that looks as if it has never been worn. "Maybe we could have."

Blaine takes a moment longer gazing at it – the fine details, the small stitches, the amazing craftsmanship. This is a garment that was lovingly made, and has definitely withstood the test of time. It's a shame it didn't get any use.

"Okay," Cooper says, clapping his hands hard, the sharp noise making Blaine wince, "you know what that means. The mess that we're searching for is behind lucky door number three."

Blaine rolls his eyes.

_Always hoping for those mummified cats._

Blaine backs away from the bed with the handsome suit laying on it. A haze passes over his vision and he suddenly has an image of a young man standing before him – a man about his age - wearing that suit.

A man with fair skin, as fine as porcelain; and eyes bluer than the ocean - eyes holding such a depth of sadness that Blaine feels his heart stutter in his chest.

"Blaine?" Cooper's voice cuts through, clearing the image from Blaine's head immediately. "What's wrong there, little bro?"

"Wh-what do you mean?" Blaine asks, his head turning left and right, trying to find the heartbroken man in the suit. The suit is there on the bed, but the man is nowhere to be seen.

Why did he look so familiar?

"I mean, you made a sound like someone punched you in the gut. Are you okay? Did you run into something off camera? Because we talked about that…"

Cooper requires that all accidents be filmed…not for insurance purposes, but because it's funny.

"N-no," Blaine stammers, doing a full 360 to get one last look around. "No, I think I've been here a little too long, that's all."

"Well, we only have a few more rooms to go, and then you can go home and do all the rest of the work. I'm not paying you for nothing, you know."

Blaine scoffs.

"In this case, you're not paying me at all."

"Exactly," Cooper says. Blaine can hear his brother's irritating grin. "So get your tuchus moving."

Blaine approaches the last bedroom, sure that Cooper is right. He'll turn the knob, open the door, and something horrible will fall on him.

He doesn't even want to consider what the horrible thing is likely to be.

Blaine folds his fingers around the doorknob. This one's polished too, but he's concentrating so hard on evasive maneuvers in his head that he doesn't look at it. He turns the knob and pushes the door in, letting go to allow it to swing freely for the rest of the way while he takes a huge step back.

But no avalanche follows him out into the hallway.

Blaine steps through the doorway to another pristine room. It too has a mahogany bed with matching dresser and wardrobe.

"_Three_ children?" Cooper asks, but Blaine is already shaking his head.

"No," Blaine says, walking toward the dresser and a pile of overturned picture frames, shards and splinters of glass crunching underfoot. Blaine picks up one gilded metal frame cautiously between his thumb and index finger. "Parent." Blaine turns the frame over. The damage to the glass is extensive – so much so that the broken glass has torn straight through the photograph underneath.

All Blaine can tell is that the picture is black and white, and there are three people in it, but he can't see their faces.

"Definitely a parent," he repeats.

He turns over the picture frames one by one – each frame decimated, the glass smashed, the photographs desecrated beyond recognition. The trail of broken picture frames and shattered glass leads Blaine to a dark spot in the carpet and a spattering of thicker, amber colored glass. Blaine crouches low to get a better look at it. The liquid has soaked through the carpet, all the way to the padding underneath.

No one even tried to clean it up.

A foot or so away from the stain lays the neck of a liquor bottle.

"It seems like someone went on a bit of bender and did some damage," Coopers says.

Blaine stands, his eyes fixed on the picture frames, the bottle neck, and all that glass.

It reminds him of the scene in the basement room – the body parts, the fragments of porcelain all around, and the blue-eyed puppet staring up at him longingly.

Like the sad man in the beautiful suit.

Could this have happened the same night those puppets were destroyed?

Blaine backs away slowly, but he can't stop staring at the glass because the reality of it is all so horrible. These photographs violated so senselessly is horrible. The violence of the damage is horrible. This wasn't an accident. Someone didn't trip and fall into the dresser, and knock these over. They were demolished out of anger.

"All of these bedrooms are…" Cooper begins.

"Immaculate," Blaine finishes.

"Yeah," Cooper agrees with a sigh. "That sucks. I was really hoping for a landslide of pizza boxes at least."

Blaine sucks in a long, shuddering breath as he sweeps the camera around, taking one last shot. He thinks about what it would take to push someone to do this.

How much would a child have to disappoint their parents to make them want to obliterate the memory of their face?

Would going to the wrong college be enough?

"Let's finish up downstairs so we can get you out of there," Cooper says, mirroring Blaine's own thoughts.

Blaine backs completely out of the room, watching the gut-wrenching scene become farther away, and unlike the other two rooms, he shuts the door to this room behind him.

Blaine wants this to be done. He's had enough.

He bypasses the upstairs bathroom, with surprisingly no complaints from Cooper, and hurries down the stairs to the dining room. He walks swiftly down the hallway and crosses the living room. He ignores the piles of toys and debris, not even thinking to put the mask back on his face as he breathes in the foul air. He reaches the far end of the house – a section he overlooked earlier since he was so focused on not dying. This part of the house has the kitchen, the downstairs bathroom, and a guest/servant bedroom, but all three rooms are nothing but floor to ceiling toys without an inch of space to move.

"Well, I think that's it for your house," Blaine says, his heart racing at the thought of gathering up his puppets and heading out of this house as soon as possible. "Was there anything else you wanted to see?"

Cooper seems to wait a breath on purpose before he answers.

"You seem kind of anxious, Blaine. Do you have a hot date or something?"

"Nope." Blaine starts taking obligatory background shots of the rooms on the lower level, working his way back to the dining room, "just eager to get started on your remodel. I have a lot of phone calls to make. You know that."

"Yeah, but you've never been so Johnny-on-the-Spot before. I should have stopped paying you sooner if I knew that was the way to get you to bust your ass."

"Don't flatter yourself, big brother." Blaine stops at the dining room table, leaning his hip against it. "I want to go work on my tan."

"Well, you do that, Blainey-boy. Just make sure you're back bright and early in the morning."

"Will, do, Coop."

"And all of you out there in computerlandia, be sure to tune back in…"

Blaine turns off the webcam and disconnects the call in the middle of Cooper's PSA and pulls the Bluetooth out of his ear. With his index finger, he massages his sore ear, glad to be rid of the stupid thing. Blaine breathes in deep and exhales long, trying to will his aching muscles to relax.

When Blaine started helping Cooper film these walkthroughs, he was amazed at how exhausting simply wandering through a house can be. Add to that the anxiety of not knowing what God-awful thing you might find, along with constantly trying to be entertaining and informative, and sometimes Blaine thinks that Cooper isn't paying him nearly enough.

Blaine goes over the schedule for the rest of his day in his mind. He still has so much work to do here. He has to move the puppets and some of the tools out to his car. He has about a dozen or more phone calls he has to make. He has to make an itinerary and draw up some preliminary sketches.

Blaine can feel the aftermath of this walkthrough weighing down heavily on his shoulders. So many of the houses he's visited previously have had their fair share of ghosts, but this house seems to have them in spades.

Most of the times when he does the walkthrough of a project house, someone accompanies him – the relative of a past homeowner, someone from the fire department, one of their contractors, the realtor – even if that person doesn't show themselves on camera. This time around, none of their contractors were available, there were no relatives to consult, and the realtor outright refused to come.

He shakes his head to clear his mind, letting the silence surrounding him bleed into his brain, and comes to an unnerving realization.

Without his brother's voice in his ear, Blaine is completely and utterly alone.


	3. Chapter 3

Blaine lifts his eyes to peer down the cluttered hallway and swallows his growing unease.

As much as his brother's voice becomes an annoying canker when Blaine listens to it for too long, the idea of calling him back crosses his mind. Blaine knows he would be setting himself up for endless ribbing, but right now he needs something familiar to keep him company.

Blaine has been left alone in project houses before, but they were nothing like this one. Blaine is a sympathetic person, totally without meaning to be. It took him a long time to build up a thick skin to guard against the kind of grief and despair that comes with a hoard in a foreclosed house, but a speck of that grief always seems to attach itself to him. The painful memories, the unfulfilled hopes, the broken dreams – they speak to him on a personal level. They are powerful, almost tangible entities, with minds of their own. He sloughs them off as best he can by being detached, but something inevitably clings to him, walking away with him, nagging at him all the way home.

He eradicates these demon emotions through rom-com marathons and buckets of popcorn mixed with M&Ms.

_This_ house is unique.

Its long-forgotten treasures have found a way underneath his skin. He feels them accumulate with every breath in that he takes. The spirits of this house have wrapped their fingers around his heart and taken hold. If he doesn't leave now, he's afraid he's not going to. He'll simply sink down into the swamp of its despair and become one with the piles of unopened toys and unfinished puppets; Blaine isn't convinced there are enough sappy Kate Hudson and Meg Ryan movies in existence to set him free if that happens.

Blaine pushes himself up off the table. He pockets his webcam and Bluetooth, and starts down the staircase that leads to the basement. He expects it to look like any other basement now that the lights are on - now that he's walked through it and become familiar with everything inside - but an abrupt pang hits him in the chest when he hops off the last step and sees the workshop again, especially when he eyes the open door to the room with the shattered puppet pieces on the floor. He tries not to think too hard about it as he gets to work. He clears his mind of the smashed picture frames from upstairs and the demolished photographs they once held. He shoves away any thoughts of a possible connection between the atrocity in that bedroom and the abused puppets in the basement.

Blaine finds two worn cardboard boxes in the workshop that only have a handful of puppet pieces in them. He moves those pieces to another fuller box and carries the empty boxes into the room. He decides to pack the puppets separately, putting all the pieces for the blue-eyed puppet in one box, and all the pieces for the green-eyed puppet in the other.

Blaine is eager to move the blue-eyed puppet first, but its head and body are made entirely of porcelain. The pieces are old and their surfaces cracked. He's afraid that the contents shifting around in the box while he drives might cause further damage. In the basement, he has nothing to wrap the pieces with. There are bolts of fabric in the workshop, but with their age and the moisture all around, he's not sure that they aren't molded through and won't disintegrate the second he unrolls them. He has some old towels and blankets in the car, but he doesn't want to waste time doubling back up the stairs empty handed. So he begrudgingly starts with the green-eyed puppet, whose parts are made of wood.

He decides to stack the puppet parts limbs first, then torso, and finally the head, to minimize any potential scratches. He bends down and reaches for the first piece – an arm. His fingers barely touch it and an arc of blue electricity shoots out from the limb like a great tentacle, spiraling around his fingertips. Blaine jerks back, catching himself before his foot comes down hard on one of the porcelain limb pieces. Blaine's heart pounds against his ribcage, but he's startled more than he is hurt. He shakes his hand to diffuse the burning tingle in his skin. He stares at the limb, waiting for it to move or for another arc of electricity to dart out and grab his ankle. His body shakes with the anticipation but the limb lies dormant. Blaine looks at his fingertips, certain that he'll see scorch marks left behind, but his skin looks unburnt. Blaine moves his hand back and forth in front of his face, wiggling his fingers, flexing his joints.

There are no marks on his skin, but there's a definite aftertaste in his mouth. It's an unusual mixture of anger, bitterness, and a sense of resentment so strong it refuses to go away. He runs his tongue along the roof of his mouth and swallows over and over, but the flavor hangs on tight.

"What the hell was that?" Blaine says out loud, subconsciously waiting for Cooper to make a snarky remark, but his question is answered by silence. The shaking in Blaine's muscles dies down to a subtle tremble as the adrenaline level in his body drops. "O-kay," he says, approaching the limb again like he's confronting a frightened dog. "I'm going to pick you up now. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm going to take you home with me and fix you up. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Blaine lets his fingertips brush the limb, and then draws them back quickly, bracing for the stinging fork of electricity.

Nothing happens.

He brushes the limb once more before he wraps his fingers around it, picks it up, and puts it into the box. He does the same with the next limb, testing it out with a gentle graze of his fingertips before grabbing it and placing it with its mate.

He packs the remaining body parts this same way, glad that Cooper and his audience can't see this ritual. His mind reels, trying to come up with a logical explanation. He assumes that the friction of his shoes on the carpet, coupled with the dust on his clothes from upstairs, must have caused the shock.

He'll overlook the fact that the stream of electricity wrapped around his fingers like a lasso.

He picks up the puppet's torso, bending it slightly at the waist to fit it into the box. Finally, he picks up the head, holding it with both hands. His eyes unintentionally meet the green-eyed stare of the puppet. Blaine hears an ominous crackling in his ears and he freezes. The electricity isn't there, but the anger is, the bitterness, and the resentment. It pulses through his body like a ripple and carries with it a phantom voice that is less of a physical sound than a feeling.

_You were a mistake! A horrible mistake! You did this! Everything…it's all your fault! _

Blaine drops the head in the box. He doesn't mean to, but it flies from his grasp as if it was batted out of his hands. It lands face down on the torso of the puppet with a loud _clunk_, and Blaine is glad not to have those eyes staring up at him.

If he had to personify this puppet in the same absurd way he's done to everything else, he'd say this puppet doesn't seem to like him.

Blaine folds the flaps of the box shut loosely over the top and picks it up in his arms. It's lighter than he predicted but a hell of a lot clumsier. He woefully misjudged the structural integrity of the box. The bottom is not completely secure. It bows outward, and the flimsy cardboard feels like it's falling apart in his hands.

"Please don't break, please don't break, please don't break, please don't break," Blaine chants as he rushes out of the room, through the workshop, and up the stairs. He keeps on chanting as he picks the fastest route through the living room and out the front door.

The sunlight burns his eyes, forcing them shut. He turns his head into the shadow created by the box in his arms and blinks a few times to get his eyes to readjust to the outdoors. They water like crazy, dusty tears stinging his eyes and streaming down his cheeks, but he doesn't let that stop him. He gets to his car and slides the box onto the roof, sighing with relief that it didn't dissolve along the way. He reaches into his pocket and grabs his keys, unlocking the passenger side door. Ignoring the puppet for a second, he dives into the glove box and rummages through it for a tissue to wipe his face and eyes.

"Ugh," he groans when he pulls it away from his face and sees a brown film staining the white tissue. He grabs another tissue and wipes down his cheeks and his forehead, feeling more normal now that his skin isn't itchy and tight from the gunk caked on it. He's still going to have to do some serious deep cleaning of his pores when he gets home, but in the meantime, this is a relief.

He blinks a couple of times more until his eyes feel less gritty and he can keep them open for longer than half a second. Then he opens the door to the back seat. He decides to put the puppets in the back seats and the tools in the trunk; this way the puppets have a better chance of staying safe without the threat of thirty pounds of tools crashing into them during an unforeseen brake check. He slides the decaying cardboard box off the roof and into the seat on the passenger side, reserving the seat behind the driver for the blue-eyed puppet.

Yeah, he's taking this to a weird place.

Blaine sets the box in the center of the seat and gives it a shake to make sure it won't slip off. As an extra measure, he pushes the front passenger seat back as far as he can to wedge the box in. He stands back and takes a look.

He likes to refer to his borrowed burgundy Honda as a car, but it's actually a minivan. He's not one for looking a gift horse in the mouth, but he resisted the idea that he was driving a 'mom vehicle' for as long as he could. Right now he can't help but be glad that he has all this room. It would stink to have to make more than one trip.

Confident that he's done everything he can to keep the wooden puppet safe, he locks the doors. Then he rounds to the back and opens the hatch, searching for anything he can find that might help him protect the porcelain puppet. He uncovers a blanket and some towels that he keeps on hand for impromptu trips to the beach. He gathers them up in his arms and heads back into the house - his footsteps slower and his breathing easier since he's had a rejuvenating moment of fresh air and Southern California sunshine. It inspires him to leave the front door of the house open to get air flowing through the rooms. It's a silly notion that occurs to him as he heads through the living room, his feet having memorized the way, but with the door left open and the light streaming in through the windows, the house seems to breathe.

He climbs down the staircase for the third time that day, and it's becoming old hat, though in the back of his mind he knows that the sun will set in a few short hours, and he's not foolhardy enough yet to be anywhere near this house after dark, lights on or no.

He passes through the workbenches and into the back room where the porcelain puppet is waiting to join its friend.

_His_.

_His_ friend.

Blaine can't refer to this puppet as _it_ any longer.

It doesn't feel right.

Blaine clears a spot for himself on the carpet and kneels down, disheartened by the sound of crunching beneath his knees. He wipes his sweaty hands on his jeans, examining the piece in front of him. It's an arm. Its surface is smooth with thin, hairline cracks running nearly every which way, emanating from a break in the forearm and webbing out in all directions. It's a painful-looking break, but regardless, the beauty of this one piece cannot be denied. Whoever fired the pieces for this puppet paid a tremendous amount of time and attention getting the tint of the matte glaze just right. There are subtle color variations in the pigmentation so that the skin tone isn't one solid color. Aside from that, finer details have been added – strokes of chestnut-colored paint that look like hair, a sprinkling of freckles, even a slash of silvery-white that looks like it was meant to be a scar.

All that time, all that work, all ruined.

Blaine smiles.

_Not anymore_, he thinks. Not when he can fix this.

He reaches for the arm, but pauses with his fingers hovering an inch or so away, wondering if this puppet might shock him, too.

He looks at the contrast between his own tan hand and the glaze on the puppet's arm that resembles soft human skin, and even though he has no evidence to the contrary, he doesn't believe this puppet will hurt him.

He doesn't believe this puppet _wants_ to hurt him.

Blaine lets his fingertips lower onto the porcelain arm. He runs them delicately up the forearm, stopping at the huge break.

"Don't worry," Blaine whispers, "I'm going to fix that. I promise."

The task of moving this puppet's body is more time consuming and exasperating than the last. Every piece he picks up splinters into smaller pieces, and Blaine becomes terrified that if he keeps this up he won't have anything but powder left. Blaine moves the arm at a mind-numbingly slow pace, centimeter by excruciating centimeter, until he gets it into position. He wraps it in a towel and puts into the box, followed by a leg, then the other leg, but the next arm he touches nearly crumbles into dust. He picks up as many of the large chunks and fragments as he can, hoping that he can find a resin that will sufficiently fill in the holes. He doesn't think he can replicate the intricate hand-painting, but he's going to try. The torso is tricky to manage with the head still attached. The neck joint rattles, and when Blaine picks up the puppet's body, cradling it in his embrace like a wounded child, the head lolls to one side, then rolls to face away. He sees a gap separating the head from the neck, which widens when he lifts the puppet higher.

"Nononononono," he mumbles anxiously, quickly laying the puppet back down.

He knows he can't lift the puppet onto the blanket, so he decides to slide the body onto it. He lays the blanket out on the carpet as close to the puppet as he can get, inching the fabric underneath the puppet's body as much as he dares. He stops when the body is half on, half off the blanket.

Blaine blushes when he looks down at the exquisite work of art lying on his blanket. The body may be broken and one eye missing, but he's the recreation of an outstandingly handsome young man.

Blaine cups his hands beneath the lower part of the torso (under the puppet's _ass,_ technically) and slides him onto the blanket.

He knows Cooper thinks he's crazy for trading his salary to rescue this broken puppet, but what Cooper doesn't understand is that Blaine and this puppet have a lot in common.

Blaine is broken. Blaine is about as incomplete as they come. No matter what he does, no matter how hard he works, there's something missing. He feels it. He's sure people can see it when they look at him.

His parents definitely do.

Missing a few parts here and there isn't the worst thing that can happen to someone.

Being forgotten - disappearing entirely - that's the worst thing.

Blaine slips a hand beneath the puppet's shoulder and another behind his head, lifting him ever so gently and relocating him to the blanket.

"Just a few more inches," Blaine says in a low, soothing voice, "and we'll wrap you up and put you into the box." Blaine gazes down into the puppet's face, into his single good eye. Blaine smiles wider as he lays the puppet down on the blanket, but his hand beneath the puppet's head starts to feel warm.

It starts at a spot in the center of Blaine's palm and radiates out like a single touch of golden sunshine. It's liquid heat, pouring into his veins, shooting out to his fingers, up his arm, spreading out into a blanket of warmth that fills his body up like a cup of cocoa on a cold winter's day.

His eyes are open, his mind awake, but the haze returns. It obscures his vision like a veil of white mist. It drifts in front of his eyes, and he can only peek through in random spots where it thins, revealing shimmering images that disappear like the dreams you hold on to in those seconds right before you wake.

_"Can you feel that?"_

Blaine hears his own voice whispering inside his head.

_"I do,"_ another voice replies. It's high and lilting, pure as silk and singing softly in his ears.

_"What does it feel like?"_ Blaine asks, his voice shaking.

_"It feels like…like summer sun all over my body…"_

Blaine laughs, pressing his lips to cool, pale skin.

_"And what else?"_

He hears a giggle answer him in that same musical voice.

_"It feels like…"_

The voice gasps. Blaine feels his body tighten and he slowly sinks to his knees.

_"It feels like you,"_ the voice whimpers breathlessly. _"Everything is you…all around me…it's you…"_

Blaine closes his eyes as the world around him spins and collapses in on him. The vision behind his eyelids, what he can see in the dark, is another set of eyes gazing back at him – perfect blue eyes, patient blue eyes, loving blue eyes that shift to grey and then grow wide. Quivering pink lips smile up at him, parting slightly, and then whisper a single, blissfully choked word.

"_Blaine_…"

Blaine's eyes snap open and he's staring into the puppet's eye, forehead pressed against the one spot of flawless ceramic on the puppet's face – at the juncture between his eyebrows. His breathing comes in heavy pants, his face burning hot.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, shaking his head from side to side, "what the hell's wrong with me?" Blaine eases the puppet down onto the blanket. He wraps the puppet up and lifts it into the box, closing the flaps on top.

"Hallucinogenic mold spores…" he babbles, "in the water on the walls…absorbs into the skin…hear about it all the time…"

He babbles his way up the stairs and into the dining room, down the hallway and out the front door.

"I'm going to bed the second I get home," he says to himself. "There's no way I got enough sleep. No more late night movie marathons for me."

This cardboard box is sturdy. He doesn't set it up on the roof of his car while he looks for his keys, feeling a peculiar comfort in holding it against his chest. He opens the door behind the driver's seat and sets the box down, contemplating buckling it in for extra protection. He doesn't want it to slide around while he drives, but he's afraid the seatbelt will tighten and crush the box with the puppet inside.

He can't decide, too befuddle to think straight about anything.

Blaine can still feel it – someone else's voice in his head, someone else's body pressed against his, someone else's skin beneath his lips, and those eyes…

Blaine wanted to look into those eyes and lose himself for as long as possible.

He closes the door and locks it without making a decision, figuring the puppet is safe for now while he gets the rest of the supplies he needs. Since he doesn't assume he'll need any of the big table saws and such, he hopes only one more trip will do it. The sky has gone from bright to golden as the sun starts to sink towards the horizon.

He wants to be on the road soon.

Back into the house and down the steps to the basement he goes. He clears out one more box and collects the tools quickly. He also grabs paintbrushes, tubes of glue, pots of resins and waxes, bottles of lacquers and shellacs, and different varieties of paints. If he has the tools the original craftsman used, maybe he can come closer to copying the artist's technique.

This box, by far, is the heaviest of the three, and Blaine struggles under its weight. He's not about to complain, seeing as he managed to fit everything in, but climbing up the stairs becomes a complicated waltz of leaning against the wall, stepping up, shifting his weight, turning sideways toward the opposite wall, and stepping up again. He grunts with each step, and twice almost leans backward too far, but when he reaches the top, he crows with triumph.

"You see that?" he says, balancing the box on his upper thigh so he can shake out each numb hand one at a time. "You see that? All in one trip…"

Blaine shuffles across the filthy linoleum, skidding forward on a spot that's slick with a dollop of prehistoric lard, and collides with the dining room table. He doesn't see the table tip, turn ninety degrees, and then slam back on its legs, blocking the entrance to the hallway, but he hears the shower of newspapers fall to the floor, followed by a loud, dull _thunk_.

Blaine takes a blind step forward and runs into the table, cutting him off at the waist and knocking the air out of him.

"Great," Blaine groans. He sets the heavy box on the table and grabs the lip of the wood, pulling the table away. He sees the newspapers scattered in the entryway, and on top of them, a photo album - overturned and open, page down, with several loose photos peeking out from under the cover.

He might have ignored it - picked up his box and stepped over the album, heading out to the car and on his way home, but a face peering up at him stops everything.

It stops the breeze blowing, the world turning…it nearly stops his heart beating.

Blaine bends over the album, looking at the face. It smiles up at him with light greyish skin and darker grey eyes, but Blaine knows those drab hues hide skin of creamy alabaster and eyes of cornflower blue. Blaine reaches down and slides the photo out from between the pages.

The man in the photo looks exactly like the man Blaine saw wearing the suit.

Those eyes, those lips – they were waiting for Blaine behind his eyelids.

But he also looks like Blaine's beautiful, broken puppet.

"Who were you?" Blaine whispers, raising a hand to trace the lines of the man's eyes, his brows, the slope of his nose, his perfect mouth. "And what were you doing here?"

Blaine gazes at the photograph; he looks his fill so that he has every line of that smiling face memorized. He slips the photograph back into the book, and then makes a split-second decision to take the album with him. He had told Cooper he would take everything he needed to fix the puppets. His blue-eyed puppet was built to look like this man. He can feel it. Therefore, he needs the photos to repair him.

Shadows grow long in the hallway as the sun sets further, and as far as Blaine is concerned, that is his cue to leave. He sticks the rest of the wayward photos between the pages and closes the album, shoving it into the box. He picks up the heavy cardboard box, now with the photo album inside, and beats a hasty retreat.

He steps through the front door, stopping momentarily to lock it.

"Okay," he says, "so I'll take all this home and then…"

Blaine is a foot away from the car when he notices something out of place. The box in the passenger seat – the one with the wooden puppet inside – has tipped over to the left, stuck between the seats, leaning against the box on the other side.

"How the hell…"

Blaine walks up to the window to get a better look. He balances the box of tools on the side of the car and tries the door.

It's locked.

"Huh…"

Blaine picks up the box and walks to the back of the car. He opens the hatch, sets the box down, then closes the hatch again. He walks around to the passenger door on the street side and pulls at the handle there.

It's locked, too.

He goes back around and tries all of the doors again.

Every single one of them is locked.

Blaine doesn't want to try and explain this one. He just wants to go home.

He unlocks the driver's side door and climbs into the front seat, feeling too exposed standing out in the street. He climbs over to the second row of seats and fixes the box, repositioning it the way he had it so that it doesn't slide again.

He gives it a shake, but wedged behind the front passenger seat, it doesn't move an inch.

"I just…I just need to get out of here," Blaine admits to himself. "I can't…ugh…"

Blaine sits in the driver's seat and buckles himself in. He takes a look around – at the street, at the other houses, at the darkening azure and champagne gold sky above, at the collection of cars parked by the curb that weren't there before, their owners tucked somewhere inside their houses, yet to make an appearance.

He doesn't look back at the house when he drives away. He lets its maniacal, mismatched paint job fade to black as he turns the corner and heads for the Interstate.

* * *

It's late when Blaine pulls into the driveway of the beach house. The indigo sky has ultimately consumed the last rays of summer evening sun, and a long line of arc sodium street lights casts an unattractive orange glow on the white concrete sidewalk. Blaine hears the waves of the ocean crashing onto the beach from where he sits in the car with the windows open (he had to open them ten minutes into the trip to flood the car with cold air as his eyelids sagged and his head nodded). He cheated at dinner, stopping by an _In 'n Out_ drive thru for a burger and a milkshake, which he ate on the road despite his own personal beliefs regarding eating while driving.

His muscles ache and his brain screams with exhaustion, but there's no way he's going to sleep anytime soon.

Gathering his strength to move those boxes one more time, he pulls his cell phone out of the center console and composes a text. At the rate he's going, Blaine will never get to the many phone calls he was supposed to be making this evening, but he can at least schedule one thing.

Blaine sends a text to his brother's guy in the collectibles business. His name is Gary Shepton, and apparently he's the guy you call in Southern California for anything toy related. Gary was heartbroken when the Happy Meal toys in the last house turned out to be junk.

Blaine's pretty sure Gary will have kittens when he sees all those mint toys still in their boxes, stacked ceiling high. He shoots off the message and gets an immediate response. It's so quick that Blaine wonders if Cooper didn't already clue Gary in.

Either way, Gary will be there in the morning, hell or high water.

It takes Blaine nearly an hour to unload the car. He chooses the dining room table as his base of operations, and uses the loveseat and the sofa in the recessed living room as a staging area to organize the delicate puppet pieces.

He unloads the puppets first. He would feel guilty about leaving them in the car while he unloads the box of supplies. He carries the box containing the blue-eyed puppet in first, then the green-eyed one, and finally the tools.

He lays out a cloth on the dining room table to protect the wood from the tools as he lays them out. A lot of them he recognizes, but some of them he has no idea what they would be for. Most of those unexplained ones appear to be homemade. Whoever made the puppets also made the tools they needed to put them together.

Conceivably, he could stop there, but he doesn't, taking the time to organize each puppet and lay it out in order so that by the time he's done he has a visual of how everything will fit together in the end.

The green-eyed puppet gets the loveseat while the blue-eyed puppet gets the couch.

It's two in the morning before Blaine locks the door to the house and declares himself done. He looks at everything he has spread out between the dining room table and the living room sofa – the puppet pieces, the various tools, the army of bottles, jars and tubs - and wonders what he has gotten himself into. Why did he want to do this again? Is it worth throwing away his last commission on this project, especially when he has more pressing matters to deal with? He looks down into the face of the blue-eyed puppet and sighs.

He doesn't have any words yet to explain it, but yes. The answer is yes. It _is_ worth it.

Now if he could only figure out why.

He's exhausted and elated and confused and eager, but the urgency to get the puppets started seems to lessen now that he has them home and safe. He plans on retiring to his bedroom, throwing a look over his shoulder every few steps as he walks away to be sure the puppets are still there. When he reaches his door, he looks down at the knob and notices his outfit. He remembers the dank basement, the motes floating through the air, the possibility of black mold hiding in wait for him, clinging to his clothes all day long. He turns right around and heads back through the living room to the mud room on the opposite side of the house. He undresses, peeling off layer after layer of spore infested clothing and stuffs them straight into the laundry machine. He measures out a capful of detergent and pours it over the clothes, and then pours in another capful for good measure, setting the whole thing on heavy duty deep clean. He pads back across the living room, naked except for his boxer briefs. Halfway across the room he gets that feeling again – the one that sets every hair on end.

The distinct, very real feeling that someone is watching him.

He looks straight towards the windows with their translucent curtains drawn. Even though they let in a great deal of the outdoor light, he knows from experience that they do an excellent job of obscuring the view from outside.

He turns back around slowly and takes a peek at the doll heads lying beside their disassembled bodies on the sofa and loveseat. They are lying as he left them except…the green eyes of the angry puppet seem to have shifted. Are they looking directly at him? Blaine stares, leaning forward, almost challenging the eyes to do something, and then shakes his head. They probably settled in that position, because there is no way that those eyes are following him.

Blaine heads back to his room, steps inside, and with one wary eye staring out into the living room, he closes and locks his door.


	4. Chapter 4

Blaine doesn't go to bed when he leaves the puppets alone in the living room and locks himself in his room. He has waited too long to take a shower. He can feel the bacteria crawling across every inch of his skin. He walks straight to his private bathroom, turns the shower water to hot, and stands beneath the spray, not even flinching when the scorching water beats down on his skin. He wants to put the day to rest and shut his mind off. He hopes the hot water burning his skin, turning it red and splotchy where it touches, will give him something else to think about, but it isn't enough to erase all the unnerving weirdness of the day.

When the day had started, Blaine was ready to go through the motions of filming another house for his brother and being humiliated before a live Internet audience. He had put on his favorite music to get into the right mindset, chose his clothes carefully - building up his armor from the inside out. He had looked forward to the end when all he had to do was come home and work out the finer details.

That seemed like so long ago.

Now that the day was over and a new one beginning, he is stuck trying to resolve a multitude of unorthodox feelings at war within him. In his living room are two puppets – one of which he is starting to have inappropriate feelings for, and another he believes wants to hurt him.

Blaine laughs out loud when the thought enters his head.

He can picture himself in a few years, bouncing from his brother's terrible renovation show to _TLC's My Strange Addiction_. His story can probably top that guy who admitted to having a sexual relationship with his car.

Blaine adjusts the water temperature to a less lethal level before second-degree burns can set in. He leans his forehead against the cool, damp tile and closes his eyes, trying to imagine himself in a make-shift studio confessional, sitting on a red chintz sofa in front of a brown sponge-painted wall, explaining how this demented relationship started – how he gave away his dreams of going to NYADA and becoming a performer on television and Broadway because he fell in love with a puppet he found in the basement of foreclosed house.

His eyelids drift shut and the tail end of his dry laugh dies on his lips when he sees those eyes again – shimmering blue eyes that darken with desire as they gaze up at him through long, chestnut-colored eyelashes. Quivering pink lips whisper his name over and over like a chant. He can hear the voice in his head clear as he can hear the shower water pattering against his skin.

_Blaine…Blaine…_

Blaine visualizes himself kissing those lips, claiming them for his own. They part for him, surrender to him. Beneath Blaine's fingertips, unbelievably soft skin trembles at his touch – perfect, impossibly smooth skin…almost like porcelain.

Blaine hears himself moan. He feels his cock twitch and his eyes pop open. He looks down at himself and gasps, freezing with revulsion.

It isn't the daydream that bothers him. It's feeling his hands creep down his chest, heading toward his cock, that makes Blaine begin to feel creepy and pathetic.

In a last minute attempt to rectify the situation, he tries to switch over to his go-to fantasy starring Adam Levine wearing a whole lot of leather, but it doesn't work.

The battle lost, he turns off the hot water completely and lets the cold water take its turn at torturing him. He pounds the tile with his fist and grits his teeth, watching his boner die a painful, frigid death. When he has cooled off entirely and those blue eyes no longer appear when he closes his eyelids, he shuts off the shower and steps out of the tub.

His eyelids hang heavily over his bleary, hazel eyes, and he figures falling asleep will be simple from this point. He'll close his eyes and his sleep-starved body will simply drag him under. He gets dressed in a heather grey t-shirt and grey plaid sleep pants, and climbs into bed. He pulls his comforter up around his shoulders, all the way to his neck, tucking himself in tight. He feels so warm, so cozy, and the next few hours of sleep promise to feel so damn good, but the moment his head touches his pillow, he catches an unexpected second wind…and a third…and a fourth.

Blaine stretches out on his stomach, his arms crossed beneath his pillow. He closes his eyes but a second later he opens them and flips onto his back, crossing his arms over his chest. His head sinks deep into his feather pillow but not in the way that he wants. He flips over again, this time onto his side, his head resting on his hands, but that's no good either. He growls through clenched teeth, voicing his frustration to the darkness around him.

There's no one to hear, no one to help.

His body is exhausted beyond compare but his mind is infuriatingly wide awake. If he can only find a comfortable spot, his brain might get the hint and switch off. He twists and turns, at one point switching ends entirely, laying with his head where his feet should be, which feels so unnatural it actually turns out to be a step backward. Regardless of what position he tries, one thing remains the same – he keeps his eyes glued to his locked bedroom door.

_This is ridiculous_, he berates himself. He tries to exhaust himself by focusing on inane and banal things. His eyes sweep his room and the few things in it – a simple Ikea desk with a lamp and his laptop on it, a three-drawer dresser with only the first two drawers filled, the door to his closet, the door to the bathroom, and the bunk bed he's sleeping in, with a full-sized mattress on the bottom and a twin-sized bunk positioned perpendicularly above him. Blaine hasn't slept in this room in ages - the _Gargoyles_ and _Sonic the Hedgehog_ posters on the wall attest to how long it's been - but in the last few weeks that he's been here, it's begun to feel like home.

He likes the independence. He likes doing things for himself. He likes feeling competent.

But he doesn't like being alone.

He sweeps his eyes back around and they fall on the clock radio on his desk.

_3:59 A.M._

Blaine rolls his eyes and groans when he sees the time. It can't possibly that early in the morning. He hasn't even closed his eyes yet. He flicks his gaze over to the clock again, just to be sure.

_4:00 A.M._

"Ugh!" Blaine thrashes out, pounding his fists onto the mattress and kicking his legs until his blanket tumbles off onto the floor. "Fuck!"

Blaine isn't normally one for cursing, but this particular bought of insomnia seems to warrant at least one vulgar four-letter obscenity. Today is going to be a big day, and he doesn't need to spend it stumbling around in a daze like a zombie.

It's no use.

He stops fighting and lies awake, staring at his door, waiting for the dawn.

Blaine lets his brain wander off on tangents of its own, touring the Victorian house in his mind, and it astonishes him that he has so much of the layout memorized. Blaine thought for sure he'd end up have nightmares about that room in the basement, but his thoughts keep returning to the upstairs bedrooms.

He does his best to ignore the room with the broken picture frames and focuses on the other two rooms – rooms created for two completely different young men in a house that both celebrated and mourned childhood. Piles of toys and filth down below - memories crusted over by time - while upstairs everything is immaculate. Polished brass doorknobs, a Little League jersey mounted under glass, that exquisite suit hung up in the closet, and that man with the sad blue eyes.

The same man who has already popped up in two unbidden fantasies.

A man who is unlike anyone Blaine has ever seen.

A man that Blaine _needs_ to see again.

Blaine sighs. He's never going to get to sleep this way so he might as well start the day. He climbs out of bed, grumbling under his breath as he scoots off the mattress and puts his feet on the floor. He picks his blanket up from where it landed at the foot of his bed, shoves his pillow underneath his arm, and trundles off to the living room. He reaches the bedroom door and stops, staring at the dark wood. His heart speeds up, his hand hovering over the doorknob, intrusive second thoughts filling his head. He doesn't know what he'll find in the living room. What if something he brought back from the house has moved on its own? Specifically, what if the green-eyed puppet has moved off the loveseat? What if it's not in the living room?

What if it's found the knives in the kitchen?

"They're just puppets, Blaine," he grumbles to himself, knowing deep down inside that's a lie. He's not entirely ruling out the idea that he came in contact with some biological hallucinogenic inside that Victorian house, but those puppets are _far_ from ordinary. He bites his tongue and unlocks the door, opening it and walking out into the living room in the same nonchalant way he would if he didn't have possible-supernatural puppets laying around. He doesn't pay too much attention to them, but he finds the puppet pieces right where he left them – with the green-eyed puppet on the loveseat and the blue-eyed puppet on the living room sofa. He had gone off to bed with them facing each other, but now the blue-eyed puppet's head seems to have turned away.

Blaine tries not to notice that detail. Maybe the two puppets _weren't_ facing each other when he went to bed. Or maybe something completely plausible happened that could have caused the puppet's head to move. It could be a side effect of his walking heavily across the floor, or the porcelain head settling into the couch cushion, or a minor Southern California tremor that he didn't notice.

Blaine lays out his blanket and his pillow on the floor beside the sofa, ignoring the feeling of eyes on his face and neck, knowing rationally that this is all part of some strange acquired phobia left over from being trapped in that depressing house all day long.

He walks over to the dining room table and finds the photo album, picking it up and turning back to his blanket. He jumps when he catches the green eyes of the wooden puppet glowing eerily in the light streaming in from outside. Blaine's brow furrows with confusion. The puppet had been looking straight at the sofa a second before, but now its eyes are looking directly at him. They can't be following him, he thinks logically, but the way they're painted, they seem to. It's the same phenomenon people experience with velvet paintings of Jesus…or Elvis.

Silly or not, he's never going to be comfortable in here with those eyes staring in his direction.

Blaine puts down the album and pulls off his t-shirt, laying it over the wooden puppet head and tucking the fabric in around it. He feels physically lighter with the off-putting face and roaming eyes covered. He grabs the album and makes his way back to the blanket. He lies down on his stomach with his pillow shoved beneath his chest and the album flat in front of him. He flips open the cover and turns to the first page. The page is a soft, black, rectangular sheet of paper that bends in the middle with the weight of the photograph on the other side. He turns it over and sees a single photograph. Beside it are the ghosts of spaces where others had been, but they fell out over time when the glue that held them to the pages disintegrated. This first photo is a black and white image of a beautiful young woman, smiling at the camera while holding a swaddled sleeping newborn baby in her arms. The picture on the page opposite is of the same woman, sitting in a chair with an older baby on her lap. He turns the page again, and again, but the next two sets of pages are devoid of photographs. He flips ahead and finds a place in the album where some of the lost photos had been stuck into the spine.

He plucks the first photograph out and there he is – the young man with the blue eyes. He's younger in this picture than the vision of the man he saw in the suit, but there's no mistaking the curve of his mouth, the delicate slope of his nose, or his hair, which is styled high in the front, probably making him a whole three inches taller than his natural height. On a whim, Blaine flips the picture over. In the bottom right hand corner, written on the diagonal in fading pencil are the words: _Kurt – age 14_.

Blaine squints at the handwriting. It seems oddly familiar. It's sloppy and rough - all edges and few curves - like symbols more than actual letters.

"Kurt," Blaine says aloud. He turns to the puppet lying on the couch. With his head settled in a different position, the puppet's one eye is looking straight at Blaine. Blaine smiles up at him. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Kurt."

Blaine replaces the photo and pulls out another one. It's 14-year-old Kurt again, standing beside an older gentleman. The older man has an arm draped across Kurt's shoulder. He is smiling at Kurt proudly while Kurt beams at the camera. Blaine turns the photo over, curious as to the identity of the older man, but all that's written there are the words _Me and Kurt_.

"Must be his dad," Blaine mutters, putting this second photograph back beside the first and grabbing another.

There are two young men in this one. They look remarkably similar, but Blaine's eyes find Kurt right away. This Kurt is slightly older, but still not the age of the Kurt he saw in the suit. Blaine's eyes shift to the man standing beside him. His eyes go wide.

_Could it be?_

He holds the picture close to his nose, angling it toward the light to get a better look.

_Oh my…_

Blaine's head snaps up to the lump on the loveseat covered by his grey t-shirt.

Blaine flips the photo over. On this one, at the bottom, are some more scrawled words in faded pencil.

_Kurt – age 16_

_Sebastian – age 17_

The green-eyed puppet finally has a name.

_Sebastian_.

Blaine peers at the picture, feeling a swirl of jealousy pool in his stomach at these two men standing side by side together. Not that he should feel jealous, he tells himself. They're probably brothers. Blaine examines Sebastian more closely, trying to pinpoint the familial resemblance.

Sebastian _is_ handsome - Blaine will give him that – but even though a mischievous smirk pulls at his lips, Blaine can see a deep discontentment in his eyes.

Blaine looks over at the puppet's head covered by his shirt one more time.

"Sebastian." He says the name out loud, letting it fill his mouth, feeling the way it rolls off his tongue. "It's nice to meet you, too," Blaine calls out, feeling immediately stupid for doing so.

Blaine flips through a few more pages. There are a couple more pictures of the beautiful woman with the child in her lap, but the other photos are mostly the same - Kurt and Sebastian photographed together at different ages, or the two young men photographed with the older man. In each of those photographs, Blaine can't help but notice how the older man always seemed to have his body turned toward Kurt, smiling at him as if he were the center of the universe, while Sebastian stood off to the side, somewhat out of the picture. Blaine takes his finger and gently traces a line between Sebastian and the older man. Yes, if Blaine takes a pair of scissors, he can cut Sebastian out of the photograph, and not a speck of him would remain.

Blaine doesn't want to sympathize with Sebastian, but he can't help it. His heart hurts for the young man.

Blaine yawns, covering his mouth with his hand and squeezing his eyes shut. He turns on his side to look up at the puppet _Kurt_.

_"You two could have been friends,"_ Cooper's voice echoes in Blaine's head.

"We could have been friends," Blaine repeats, staring at Kurt's face, yawning again, "that would have been nice."

His mind walks through the bedroom that must have been Kurt's, with the sewing machine and the dress form, and all those opera posters hanging on the walls. If Kurt were alive today, they could go to musicals together, watch old black and white movies, or talk about fashion. Blaine had a lot of good friends back home in Ohio, but he always felt like there was something missing.

Maybe Kurt could have been that missing puzzle piece.

Blaine reaches out a finger and gently traces the line of Kurt's mouth. _How close to the real Kurt's mouth is this one?_ he wonders. _How close did the puppet master who made him get the blue of his eyes?_ Blaine sighs and gazes into Kurt's face, planning on letting his jumble of thoughts and daydreams and questions carry him through the remaining hours until he has to leave in the morning.

* * *

_Blaine watches Kurt's legs swing lightly against the square granite headstone he's perched on._

_"Do you really think it could work out for them?" Kurt asks hopefully, his eyes turning back toward the screen. "Do you think they can fall in love and live happily ever after?"_

_"I don't see why not," Blaine answers, tossing a piece of popcorn in his mouth. "Stranger things have happened." Kurt turns to Blaine and Blaine gives him a wink and a teasing smile._

_Kurt looks at the bag of popcorn in Blaine's hand. He licks his lips with the memory of it, but he doesn't take a piece._

_"Have you…" Kurt bites his lip as best he can, the move looking natural even though for him it's not, "have you ever been in love?"_

_Blaine stops chewing his popcorn and swallows hard._

_"Once," Blaine admits, looking down at his shoes in the grass, his cheeks coloring, though Kurt can't see the change in the dark. _

_"Ah," Kurt says, nodding and turning away. "What happened? How did it end?"_

_Blaine chuckles a bit, his focus shifting from his shoes back up to the screen._

_"It hasn't ended yet," Blaine says, placing another piece of popcorn in his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. He watches the two lovers on the screen embrace, and then dares a glance in Kurt's direction._

_Kurt is staring at him, his mouth dropped open, his eyes wide. Blaine laughs at the startled look on his face. Blaine presses a kiss to his own index finger, and then presses that finger to Kurt's lips. He curls his fingers beneath Kurt's chin and closes his mouth._

_"You shouldn't sit with your mouth open like that," he says. "You'll catch flies."_

* * *

Blaine wakes up to the sun warming his cheek and a faraway buzzing – like the incessant drone of gnat - niggling in his ears. Blaine blinks his sluggish eyelids open and looks around, having forgotten for a second that he was lying on the floor in the living room and not in his bed. He sees the white sunlight streaming in through the curtains. He sees the dining room table laden with tools. He sees the green-eyed puppet – _Sebastian_ – staring at him.

Blaine's eyes pop open and he sits straight up.

Sebastian's painted green eyes stare down at him - the grey shirt that had been covering his head pooled on the floor.

"Southern California," Blaine mumbles, staring straight into the puppet's eyes, "earthquakes…tremors…nothing else going on at all."

He stands and backs away towards his room, eager to turn off his obnoxious alarm and get a few more Zzzz's. He slams his hand down on the alarm button before he sees the time.

_9:15 A.M._

He brings a hand up to his face and rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand.

"9:15…" he says out loud, wondering why that time in particular bothers him. He raises his arms over his head and stretches, hearing the vertebrae in his back crack one at a time. "9:15…" he says again, twisting back and forth. He smacks his forehead with his hand. "9:15!" he yells when he remembers. "I was supposed to meet Gary at the house at 9!"

All thoughts of Sebastian's puppet head pushed aside, Blaine tosses on the first outfit within reach – a pair of dark wash jeans, a red bowtie, and a slate blue button down shirt with teddy bear heads on it.

He didn't originally intend on wearing that shirt, but it seems appropriate.

He slips on his shoes and grabs his webcam, his Bluetooth, and his cell phone. He checks his phone when he sees the blinking green light. There are already seven text messages from Gary and a missed call from Cooper (probably wondering when Blaine is going to get his ass rolling). There's no live feed planned for today. Blaine is just recording the general goings on, which gives Blaine some freedom to work without playing to an audience. He slips his Bluetooth into his ear and quickly dials Cooper back as he grabs all his various keys.

"Blainers," Cooper's voice greets him after one ring.

"Hey, Coop," Blaine says, fighting to get the words out around a yawn.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," Cooper scolds, "you sound exhausted. Long night tinkering with your puppets, Dr. Strangelove?"

Blaine sighs.

"Not at all. I was busy working on the plans for your house," Blaine lies.

"Right," Cooper responds with a touch of skepticism. "Well, it's a good thing I trust you and your artistic vision."

"Yeah, good thing," Blaine says wryly. Blaine makes his way back into the living room while he talks to his brother, but he's distracted - by Kurt, by Sebastian, by beginning his day late - and he just wants to end this call as painlessly as possible. "Look, I'm heading out to the house now to meet Gary. I'll call you when I get there."

"I'll be waiting," Cooper says. There's a pause, a breath of tense silence filling the space when Cooper would otherwise disconnect the call, like he wants to say something. Blaine is about to ask if there's anything else on his mind, but then the line goes dead.

Blaine shrugs it off. Cooper isn't shy about his feelings. If he has something to say, he'll say it eventually. Blaine heads to the front door but he finds himself stalling - backtracking to his bedroom, to the bathroom, to the dining room table, double checking for things he knows he has. He shouldn't feel guilty about leaving, but he does, and not because he wants to get started working on the repairs.

He doesn't want to leave Kurt alone again.

Sebastian, too, he guesses. Blaine might have strange, irrational ideas about Sebastian not liking him, but he's broken, too. He was locked down in that basement room in the dark along with Kurt for all those years.

Nobody deserves that.

Blaine paces back and forth while he thinks, trying to find a solution so he feels comfortable leaving. He finally turns on the TV, switching the channel to _AMC_.

It's not the same as human company, but at least it won't be quiet.

He takes one last look at the puppets and walks out the door.

"I'll be back in a few hours," he says as an afterthought, and then leaves, locking up the house and heading to his car.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** _I keep forgetting there is amazing art for this story at post/96837318686/fmhartz91-all-the-beautiful-pieces-artist_

Blaine pulls up to the house at a quarter after ten. It looks exactly the way he left it –horrendous paintjob and all - with the exception of a U-Haul truck parked by the curb, and a grown man wearing a navy blue polo and retro 1980s acid wash jeans staring in at the window with his hands pressed to the glass. From the back, he looks like an oversized Cabbage Patch doll, but through the reflection in the window he looks like a young Karl Marx _with_ the iconic frizzy beard.

"Blaine…" the man moans through the glass in a plaintive voice. "Blaine, where are you? Open the door…"

Blaine shakes his head when he sees him, chuckling at the man's woeful wail. Blaine parks in front of the house but the man doesn't notice, focused as he is on the living room full of toys, visible through the curtains that Blaine didn't pull closed the night before.

"Gary!" Blaine calls out as he steps out of his car. "Have some self-respect, man."

"Blaine!" Gary exclaims, spinning around, his face glowing with a childish smile of excitement but his voice tinged with his exasperation at being kept waiting. "You can't leave me out here with all those toys inside, begging for me to take them away from this awful house." Gary presses his ear against the glass. "I can hear them, Blaine," he says as Blaine approaches the door. "They're saying _'Gary…come rescue us, Gary. We need you…'_"

"I'm sorry." Blaine chuckles, sorting through his key ring for the right one. "I got held up."

"Yeah," Gary says, flashing a knowing wink and a wicked grin, "your brother told me _all_ about it. Getting into the puppet biz, huh, Blaine?"

Blaine pulls a disgusted face, turning away from Gary to unlock the door.

"Jesus Christmas! You, too?" Blaine pushes the door open as wide as he can and leaves it propped open.

Gary walks in behind Blaine, but stops just inside the doorway, his eyes open wide with awe, his jaw dropped, a hand raised to cover his heart.

"I can't…I can't believe it," Gary says dramatically, staring at the heaps of toys and the stacks of boxes. "It's…it's amazing."

"Yeah," Blaine agrees, pulling his webcam out of his pocket and switching it on, "and this isn't even half of it."

Gary whimpers and Blaine trains the camera on his face.

"It's like a dream come true," Gary whispers, wiping an imaginary tear from the corner of his eye.

"Snap out of it, Gary." Blaine snaps his fingers in the air above the webcam. "You have to do your spiel."

Gary startles out of his enamored trance at the sound of the sharp, unpleasant noise.

"Right, right…" Gary tugs down on the hem of his polo to straighten out the wrinkles - not that it does any good, or that it matters compared to the mustard stain on his collar - and then looks into the camera. "When should I…"

"Now," Blaine says. "So, this is Gary Shepton, and he's going to be appraising the toys in the house today. Gary, what exactly are you going to do while you're here?"

"So," Gary says, his eyes bouncing back and forth between Blaine and the camera, "I'm going to be photographing and cataloging…" He pulls an iPad mini tablet out of his back pocket and holds it up, accessing an empty Excel document and showing it to the camera. "When I'm done, I'll load the toys I can sell up in my U-Haul and take them to my shop. In the interim, I'm going to send Cooper a detailed inventory of all the toys, their conditions, and their estimated values."

"How do you know all of that information?" Blaine asks, again taping filler for Cooper to use in case he runs a few minutes short of his time slot.

"I use Google Goggles and some other Internet surfing software that helps me track down the items I'm looking at fairly quickly," Gary explains. "One photograph and I can bring up all the information I need. It makes researching a lot easier and quicker." Gary smirks. "I wish I had this five years ago, I'll tell you what."

"We have rooms and rooms full of toys in this house. How long do you think that's going to take?" Blaine asks, his question a carefully veiled way of finding out how long they are going to be there.

"Most of the day, if I'm lucky," Gary says with an awkward sigh.

_Great_, Blaine thinks, hoping that Kurt and Sebastian don't get too bored watching old movies all day long.

"Okay," Blaine says, switching off the webcam and trying not to sound too disappointed. "I have some things to do in the house and some phone calls to make. If you need me, just holler."

"Will do," Gary says, his attention already drawn to a stack of vintage Barbie dolls in the far corner.

Blaine watches him go, shaking his head at the odd man.

"Have fun," he says, watching Gary pull on a pair of cotton gloves and get down to work.

Unlike dealing with Cooper's other project houses, which were a simple matter of calling in a clean-up crew to get rid of the garbage and occasionally coming across a gem or two that they could sell, this house is a complicated mishmash of treasures and antiques, along with the fairly typical, normal trash. Blaine needs to pull out his whole Rolodex of contacts for this project. He needs to get someone to unload the heavy tools in the basement, someone else to appraise the sports memorabilia upstairs, and he needs to order a temporary storage unit for all of the furniture. Authentic Victorian furnishings are highly coveted, which makes them hard to find, and ultimately expensive when you find someone willing to part with them. He intends on keeping anything he can salvage and repurpose it for the renovation.

The upstairs bedrooms are going to be the easiest rooms to renovate by far. Cooper is definitely going to want to sell the baseball pennants and the bat, and probably the opera posters, too. There's a huge market for those vintage posters, especially in mint condition with the bright colors that these posters have. But the furniture will all stay.

A hard pit grows in Blaine's stomach at the thought of dismantling Kurt's bedroom.

Blaine had originally thought that the workshop in the basement where the puppets were made was the heart of the house. After he saw the bedrooms, he realized he was wrong. The upstairs rooms, so well-cared for, with their carefully chosen mementos mounted on the walls – those rooms are the heart of the house.

Blaine feels sick at the idea of tearing that heart apart.

But he has Kurt, he reminds himself. He saved Kurt…and Sebastian…and that's all that matters.

Yes, all that matters apparently is his burgeoning insanity and a future on tabloid talk shows, he thinks ruefully.

Blaine heads down the hallway to the dining room, smiling to himself when he hears Gary chirp in triumph at some amazing doll-related discovery.

"They have the whole Bob Mackie for Barbie collection? Sweet!"

Blaine heads up the stairs to the upper level, but bypasses the bedrooms, opting to start in the attic, with the neat stacks of boxes and the furnishings that were kept up there.

He knows he'll have to deal with all of those latent memories in the bedrooms – and the possibility of another evocative fantasy about Kurt – but for now he'll start with the easy-to-handle stuff.

Blaine switches the webcam to still-camera mode as he heads up the last flight of steps. There doesn't appear to be a light switch up here, but sunlight floods in through a circular vent in the outer wall, so the whole room is warm and bright.

Blaine looks over the sparse furniture items up there – a stand-up lamp with what looks like a Tiffany shade, another table lamp with a pleated cream-fabric shade sitting on a squat cherry wood end table that most likely had been in the living room at some point, four chairs that belonged to the dining room table downstairs, and a matching pair of Queen Victoria wing chairs upholstered in a cream fabric imprinted with gold ivy leaves.

Blaine photographs each piece, mentally fixing where he wants to relocate it in the house. He wonders if Kurt would have liked one of those wing chairs in his room, or maybe the stand-up lamp next to his sewing table while he worked. What kinds of clothes did he sew? Did he make outfits for himself, or did he make dresses and sell them?

Or maybe he worked in the theater, making costumes. Those posters in his room could all be from performances he worked on.

Blaine smiles, imagining Kurt as a student at McKinley, working on the costumes for the musical Blaine starred in his junior year – _West Side Story_.

Blaine moves the standing lamp into better lighting while he daydreams of afternoons spent with Kurt after school, talking over measurements and fittings, maybe building up the nerve to ask Kurt on a date. Blaine repositions the lamp shade so that the sunlight streams through the dark glass and then takes a picture. He's all set to take another picture when, out of the corner of his eye, he sees a line of dark marks along one side of the boxes.

Blaine pockets his webcam and walks over to the boxes. He runs his finger over the line of writing. It's hard to read; whatever marker had been used to write this has bled into the cardboard, but the skeleton of some of the writing remained.

Blaine has seen this before. He wishes he had brought one of the photographs from the album at the beach house with him to check. He had thought about carrying Kurt's picture in his pocket, but he didn't want to ruin it. These nearly unreadable words, hastily scribbled by a hand that probably didn't spend too much time writing, look identical to the writing on the backs of the photographs.

Blaine tears into the first box. The flaps pop up with little effort. The top is lined with newspaper, faded where the seam of the box was exposed to the afternoon sunlight, but otherwise intact. Blaine digs through the sheets of newspaper and sees conflicting dates. The paper on the top is more recent, albeit from about thirty years ago, but a few layers down the paper is much older. Beneath that is a wealth of leather bound books. Blaine lifts the ones on top to peek underneath.

Yup, more books.

Blaine frowns.

He's not sure what he expected, but it wasn't boring old books. Blaine picks one up to examine it.

Well, at least Cooper will be thrilled. He has a guy in L.A. who buys rare books, and seeing all the collectibles in the house, these books are probably first editions.

Blaine opens up the cover and turns to a random page.

_January 18__th__ –_

_I'll never get used to the weather in Seattle. Always so wet, always so dreary. I much prefer the California coast…all of the sunshine and warmth. If only we could find a place to settle down there, where we all can be happy. God, I miss you guys. Every day I miss you guys. I'll never forgive myself for missing the most important day of our lives…and I did it again. But I'm trying to make a new life for us, doll, and when I break into the big time, it's going to be the best of the best for the Smythe family._

Blaine stops reading. He looks at the black leather cover. The spine is bare except for a gold embossed number – _1915_.

These aren't books. They're journals.

Blaine reaches into the box and looks at the books again. Each one similar, each with a different year embossed along the side – _1916, 1917, 1918, 1919…_

It doesn't seem like there's an end to them. Blaine returns the book to its box and pulls it down from the stack. He opens the next box. The flaps pop open, as if they had been waiting for years for someone to come along and find them, and a strong smell escapes.

A burnt smell, like old coals left over after a barbecue.

There are no piles of newspapers covering these books. Blaine picks up the first journal. The date on the spine is worn down and almost too difficult to read. He traces his finger over it, revealing the imprint of the number _1932_. Blaine looks at his finger. His skin is stained black, covered in a layer of fine ash. He raises the book to his nose and takes a tentative sniff.

It smells like a fireplace.

Blaine looks this journal over. The gold rind on the pages is singed and parts of the leather cover are burnt. Blaine opens the book to the middle.

_November 24 –_

_It's Thanksgiving Day, but there's nothing to be thankful for. Everything is gone. All of it, my entire life, gone. I would bring you all back if I could. I would trade everything that I said and did to make it all right again._

The entry cuts off there with a long, violent swipe of black ink cutting across the page. Blaine turns the page to look for another entry, but there is nothing. No entry for November 25, no entry for November 26, no other entry for the rest of the month. Blaine keeps flipping the pages, but the book is blank until Christmas Day.

_December 25 –_

_Merry Christmas to all those I love who are no longer here with me. I feel your presence every day, but it's not the same._

That's the last entry for the remainder of the year.

Blaine stares at the blank page labeled December 31st.

It seems so empty, so final.

Blaine wishes there was something written there – anything. Something that tells him that despite it all, despite all this obvious pain, that life went on and good things happened.

Blaine turns back to the beginning of the journal, to the earlier entries for the year.

_February 14 –_

_It's Valentine's Day, and I miss you so much that I don't think that I could even begin to tell you. I made your favorite dinner, bought a bottle of that God awful wine you loved so much, and I ate it alone. Well, not alone. Kurt was here with me. I love that boy and I appreciate his company, but it wasn't the same as having you here. Meanwhile, Sebastian went out drinking…again. He takes a little too much after me, I'm afraid, but he's going to get some floozy knocked up, and then what? He'll get chained down with a brood of simpering brats and no future. That's not what you wanted for him, and it's not what I want for him, but he doesn't listen to me._

_The sad thing is that I'm past the point where I even care anymore._

Blaine feels his throat tighten as he continues on, blowing through a bunch of pages, letting the book lead him to where he should read next.

_March 6 –_

_Everyone is telling me to pack it in. It's over, but I refuse to believe it. So maybe the work isn't out there the way it was, but we've suffered dry patches before. The audiences will come back. Once they realize these talkies are all a gimmick, they'll return. They always do. They'll be begging us to perform for them, and the money will flow in ten deep, I'm sure…but if they don't, what will I tell my boys? How do I tell them it's all over?_

"What?" Blaine asks the book, flipping through the pages and hoping he'll magically stumble upon the answer. "What's over?"

Blaine scans through the pages, but he's overwhelmed by the amount of entries, and battling the nearly indecipherable handwriting. He looks up at the boxes stacked in front of him. There are six total. They can't all be full of books, can they? Did whoever wrote in these journals write one for every year of his life?

There is only one way to find out. Blaine would have to read through them all.

The boxes are going home with him.

Blaine repacks the box and hoists it into his arms.

It's a treacherous trip down the narrow stairs with this box of books he's carrying, but as with the puppets, there's a compulsion within him to see this through. Whatever's going on, these books are part of what he'll need to solve this mystery. He can't leave them behind.

He steps into the dining room and shuffles across the floor, down the hallway and into the living room, which is starting to look much more roomy now that Gary has started loading the Barbie dolls into his U-Haul.

Less clutter means more room for the house to breathe, and the atmosphere in the downstairs level seems lighter now.

He carries the box out to his car, balancing it on his leg in order to fish his car keys out of his pocket and open the back hatch. He puts the box in his trunk, shoving it over as far as he can to one side to make room for the others. He doesn't shut the hatch to his trunk completely, rushing back inside for another box.

"How's it going, Gare?" Blaine asks as he blows past the man heading toward the front door, his arms laden with pink boxes. Blaine asks the question, but he doesn't stop to wait for an answer.

"I never want to leave," Gary calls after him.

One by one, Blaine carries the boxes of books down to his car, eager to go through each box and unlock whatever secret these journals might hold.

As he carries the last box through the living room, he remembers that he's supposed to be filming Gary working, and to a lesser extent himself.

"When I come back in, I need to film you, Gary," Blaine calls out to the man unloading the toys in the downstairs bathroom.

"Whatever floats your boat," Gary calls out. "By the way, I think your brother is going to be really happy with the numbers I'm going to send him."

"_That_ good?" Blaine asks, stopping for a moment out of curiosity.

"Oh, yeah," Gary says. "Most of this stuff is going to be no problem to move. I have a guy who's looking for half the stuff I found already, and he's willing to pay market price. I think he's reselling them in Japan or something."

"Wow," Blaine says, genuinely impressed.

"Yeah. If I were you, I'd ask for a raise."

Blaine swallows. _Too late for that_, he thinks. God knows he could have used the money, too.

But he's not about to unload on Gary – not about this.

"I'll do that," Blaine says instead, and heads out to his car.

All six boxes fit, shoved against each other tight without a single space between them. The back of his car sinks about a foot beneath the weight.

He closes the trunk, intent on heading back to the house just as a silver Lexus pulls up to the curb. Blaine doesn't recognize the car so he waits to see if it's a nosy neighbor driving by to see what all the action is about.

The Lexus parks right in front of his Honda. He stands and waits for a moment to see who gets out.

The woman stepping out of her car isn't looking at him. She might not even realize that he's standing there. Her gaze is completely focused on the house in front of her. When she stands completely, she's an inch or two taller than Blaine, wearing a tailored aubergine suit with a white shirt underneath her jacket. Her auburn hair is cut in a bob that falls an inch above her earlobes. Her tan looks artificial and she's wearing contacts to change her eyes to blue. Everything about her is exceptionally clean and sharply cut angles, from the razor cut of her hair to the severe downturn of her mouth. She is definitely dressed to intimidate, but intimidate who, Blaine isn't sure.

"So, it finally sold," she says, shaking her head with blatant disapproval. "I almost didn't believe it when I heard."

"Uh, may I help you?" Blaine asks, coming forward, considering whether or not he should be taping this conversation.

The woman turns only her head and looks Blaine over from head to foot with an unamused half-smile, half-frown on her face.

"I don't know," she says curtly. "Can you?"

Blaine jerks back a bit at her impolite response.

"Uh…I probably can if you tell me…"

"I'm curious to know what the new owners have planned for this house," she interrupts. "My name is Catherine Dorst. I'm a liaison for the San Diego Historical Society."

"Blaine Anderson." Blaine steps forward, offering the woman a cordial smile and his hand. She looks him over again and scoffs, turning back to the house.

"Okay," Blaine starts, pulling his hand back, "well, we plan to bring the house back to its original design," Blaine says confidently. "We're going to keep all the original structural details and…"

"We?" she says with a smirk, examining Blaine shrewdly. "You and who else? I mean, how old are you? Twelve?"

"Uh, no," he says, ducking his head with a polite smile crossing his lips. He doesn't take offense since looking younger than his age is a boon in his chosen profession. "No, my brother Cooper Anderson bought the house for his home renovation show. I'm his brother. I'm in charge of the renovation."

She turns back to Blaine, still glaring at him but with a much softer expression on her face.

"Cooper Anderson?" she asks. "_The_ Cooper Anderson?"

Blaine sighs.

"The one and only," he says, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"I've seen him on TV," she says, straightening her suit and fussing with her hair. "Is he here?" She starts up the walk as Gary walks out with another load of dolls. He hums to himself and laughs at odd intervals. She glances at his with a grimace and keeps on walking.

"No," Blaine says, tailing after her, "he's not here. He's in L.A."

She stops short.

"Shame." She turns back around and heads back to her car, crooking a finger over her shoulder and summoning Blaine to follow. "The historical society has been trying to buy this house for a while now, but I guess it just wasn't in the stars." She opens her passenger side door and pulls out a leather briefcase, resting it up on the roof of her Lexus. She quickly dials the combination on the lock and the lid snap open. She pulls out a manila file full of paperwork. "Since this is a historical point of interest, there are some recommendations for the renovation, a list of materials we request that you use, a request form to put the address of the house on our tour list…"

"_What_ list?" Blaine asks, taking the papers that she thrusts in his direction.

"Our website lists the addresses of all the authentic Victorian houses in the county for people to drive by and look at. You're not required to add the Smythe House to the list, of course, but that doesn't mean people won't find you and drop by anyway. At least if you are listed on our website, people will have to abide by the rules we lay down to protect your privacy."

Blaine's eyes flick up from the papers in front of him.

"Smythe House?" Blaine asks.

"Andrew Smythe," Catherine says. "He bought this house back in the mid-30s."

_Smythe_.

Like the name on the Little League jersey in the bedroom upstairs.

"Who is Andrew Smythe?" Blaine holds the pages down at his side and gives Catherine his undivided attention.

She rolls her eyes.

"Did you even Google this house before you started tearing into it?" she asks bitterly.

"I…I only first saw it yesterday," Blaine says, trying not to sound too defensive. "And I haven't _torn into it_. We're in the process of clearing it out. I intend on taking my time to get this renovation right."

Catherine stands up straighter, visibly taken back by Blaine's conviction.

"Andrew Smythe was one of the last great Vaudevillians of his time," she explains, her tone coloring with a bit more respect, "and one of Vaudeville's staunchest supporters."

"Really?"

Catherine closes her briefcase and puts it back in her car, closing the door to lean against it while she speaks.

"He was one of those precious few who were holding on with both hands, waiting for Vaudeville to make a revival. Vaudeville took a lot from Andrew, like it did from other performers."

Blaine has a feeling he knows what she's referring to, but he asks anyway.

"What did it take?

Catherine glances over Blaine's head at the house with a distant look in her eyes before she answers.

"His wife," she says heavily, "and his sons."

"He had sons?" Blaine asks, but it's both a question and a declaration. He's stitching up the clues he already knows with Catherine's confirmation.

"Yes. Two," she says with a nod of her head, "though there was speculation that one of them wasn't his son."

Blaine narrows his eyes at the woman still staring past him at the house.

"Were their names Kurt and Sebastian?" he asks.

Her eyes immediately look down to meet his gaze and she smiles.

"Yes, they were," she confirms. "It looks like you did your homework after all."

Blaine is about to mention the puppets in the basement and the journals from the attic, but he holds his tongue. He doesn't want Catherine to ask to see them…or possibly to take them. This house was declared a historical landmark before they bought it. According to the auction company they purchased the property from, everything inside the house belongs to them, but if it has historical significance, can Catherine claim it? Blaine's iffy on the legalities of their situation, so he says nothing. He's not willing to part with his puppets – to part with Kurt - or these new clues that he's found.

"Look," Catherine says, breaking Blaine from his thoughts, "I apologize if I'm being a little touchy about all this, but we were supposed to be the first ones contacted when the owner died. We were poised to buy this house, but the bank moved straight to auction, and we were never informed…"

Catherine's comment strikes a chord – something Blaine had read in the paperwork his brother had sent him that doesn't match up to Catherine's story about Andrew Smythe owning the house.

"Okay, I don't understand though," Blaine says, interrupting this time, feeling more at ease to talk, "my brother bought the house at auction, but the owner before the bank is listed as Terry? Tricia?"

Blaine furrows his brow as he tries to recall the name. Catherine shakes her head as a breeze picks its way through her auburn hair, blowing a few strands in her face.

"Teresa," she corrects, brushing the hair from her face. "Teresa Calhoun. She was listed on the deed to the house as his niece."

"So, he had a sister?" Blaine asks hopefully, interested in finding a living relative who might know more about the story of Andrew and his sons.

"No, Andrew Smythe had no other family that we know of," Catherine says with a shake of her head. "I don't think she was a blood relative. Vaudeville performers are a tight knit group. I think Teresa was dumped off on Andrew because there was no one else to care for the girl, and he couldn't say no. But by that point, he didn't quite have all his ducks in a row, if you catch my drift, and with good reason." Catherine sighs; it's a sad, fretful sound. "I don't think he sent her to school. I don't think she even left the house."

Catherine pauses and watches Gary return to the house; Blaine stands by quietly, waiting patiently for her to continue.

"Before Andrew died, he tried to make arrangements for Teresa, but she had no other relatives, and she couldn't live on her own. Without a guardian, she would have been committed. So he contacted us and we worked together to have the house declared a historical landmark."

"I heard Victorian houses were a hot commodity out here," Blaine interjects.

"They are, but being a historical landmark, she would be safe to live out the rest of her life here. There were some requirements with regard to the house's upkeep that Andrew still had to fulfill. We had discussed plans for turning the house into a Vaudeville museum eventually, but Andrew died before we could finalize the paperwork. After that, Teresa wouldn't answer the door when we came by, she never answered the phone." Catherine looks up at the house with longing in her eyes. "You know, Andrew bought this house pretty much right after his sons died. I think it was a way for him to try and start over. Maybe he was considering starting another family…I don't know. But I hope whoever buys this house knows what it's worth."

"I'll make sure my brother finds someone worthy of it," Blaine says. The moment the words come out of his mouth, he commits them as a vow. Usually he doesn't concern himself with whoever bought the renovated houses off of his brother once Blaine was done with them, but he couldn't let just anyone buy this house…not now.

Catherine smiles at him.

"See that you do," she says with a wink, extending a hand his way. "It was nice to meet you, Blaine."

Blaine takes her hand and shakes it.

"It was nice to meet you, too."

She smiles at him, takes one last look at the house, and then climbs back into her Lexus. She starts the engine, but doesn't pull away from the curb right away. She rolls down her passenger side window and leans across the seats.

"Blaine?"

"Yes?" Blaine leans down and peers in through the window.

"We still have an exhibit down at our main offices on the history of Vaudeville in San Diego, but we are desperately short on any actual artifacts. If you come across something in there that you think you can part with, would you give me a call?"

Catherine reaches into her glove box and pulls out a business card, handing it through the window to Blaine.

"Sure," Blaine says, feeling a spark of possessiveness light in his chest, almost as if she had asked for his puppets outright. "Anything in particular you were looking for?"

"Anything really," she says with a non-committal twist of her lips. "Posters, costumes…if you guys find Sammy, and your brother is willing to part with it, we'd be extra special grateful." Her words sound oddly suggestive, but Blaine lets it go.

"Sammy?" he asks, scrunching his nose.

"Andrew's puppet," Catherine clarifies. "His main puppet, I should say. After he left Vaudeville, no one saw Sammy again. I would love to see him resurface."

"So, Andrew Smythe was a ventriloquist," Blaine says, reading over the words on the business card before sticking it in his back pocket. "Were Kurt and Sebastian ventriloquists, too?"

"Sebastian was," Catherine says, sitting back up in her seat and preparing to drive away, "or his dad was training him to be. People say he wasn't all that good at it."

"And Kurt?"

"He sang. He was a countertenor. A very rare talent. He would have been a headliner, too, only…" Catherine looks down at her steering wheel. "Well, I think you can guess."

"Yeah. I can guess."

Catherine raises a hand and waves at Blaine. She turns her Lexus around in the cul-de-sac and then drives away.

Blaine looks down at the papers in his hands. Every day at this house is a new adventure in pain and heart break. Now along with Andrew and his sons, he can add the mystery Teresa to the mix. But even with all this new information that he learned, he has more questions and less answers than he had before.

"Hey, I found your fireplace," Gary says, waving to a space in the far corner of the living room when Blaine enters the house.

Blaine looks at it. He had seen the chimney from the outside, but for some reason the idea of having a fireplace in the house hadn't occurred to him. It immediately brings to mind the burnt journal currently sitting in his car, waiting to be read. He groans, knowing he can't leave until Gary is done with his work.

Can't he move any faster?

Blaine spends the rest of the afternoon with the mindless busywork that he didn't get done the day before. He makes all his phone calls, schedules more appraisers to come down to the house, and orders a storage unit for the furniture. Then he tails around with Gary, taping him for Cooper's show, and then helping him out, moving the dolls to the U-Haul so he doesn't sit around and count the hours before he can go home to Kurt.

It's a little before seven in the evening before Gary decides he's done for the day, begging Blaine for the opportunity to come back tomorrow and finish.

Blaine needs Gary to sell the toys.

Did Gary really think Blaine would say no?

Blaine waves to Gary, watching the box truck pull away with its haul. He's glad that all those toys will find new homes, but it feels like carving away a piece of the spirit of the house to see all those old toys go. But without the clutter of them littering the floor, Blaine is getting a better idea of what the house truly looked like when it was new.

It wasn't a glorified storage unit or a junk pile.

It was a home, and this one may have been more full of hope than any house he has ever seen.

It was a way to start over.

Blaine looks at his car filled with boxes of journals, ready to go home.

That's a lot of reading he's got ahead of him.

Blaine starts locking up, making sure that the curtains are closed this time around to deter any other curious eyes has another, but he has a thought. He heads back into the house and up to the bedrooms. He goes into Kurt's room and retrieves the suit from the bed.

This suit was made for Kurt, and Blaine's eager to see him in it.

It still astounds Blaine how the suit looks so brand new, like it could have been made yesterday.

Blaine brings the fabric to his nose and sniffs it.

It even smells new.

Blaine looks at the fabric…looks at the stitching…then he turns to look at the rest of the room – the bed, the sewing machine, the dress form, the posters.

Everything in this room tailored for Kurt, the way the other room was made for Sebastian.

Everything looking so brand spanking new…new and unused.

Blaine thinks over his conversation with Catherine, and as her words repeat in his head, he pulls the suit close to him and hugs it tight to his chest.

If Andrew Smythe bought the house to start over _after_ his sons died, that means Kurt and Sebastian were never in these rooms.

Kurt never used the sewing machine, even though the bobbins are full and the needle threaded.

Blaine gulps down the pit that's been bouncing around his stomach all day.

This isn't a bedroom he's standing in.

It's a shrine.


	6. Chapter 6

Tears stream hot and unchecked down Blaine's cheeks by the time he gets home, but for the life of him he can't remember when he started crying. He doesn't think he was crying when he left Kurt's room…no, _shrine_…with the suit clutched to his chest. He might have gotten misty-eyed when he closed the door and walked numbly down the hallway. A tear could have welled up in his eye and broken free as he hurried down the stairs. But between crossing the living room, locking up the house, and walking to his car, everything else he did becomes a blur.

He drove on autopilot all the way to the coast, the majority of his conscious thought focused on the new reality he had been saddled with.

Before it registers, he pulls into his driveway and parks his car. He kills the engine and crosses his arms over the steering wheel, sighing heavily. He looks at the reflection of his face in the rear view mirror - cheeks splotchy, eyes rimmed red, curls on his head pulling free of the gel he uses to keep them out of his face from the many times he ran his hand through his hair. He's here. He looks like complete and utter hell, but he's here – eighteen-years-old, working hard, with his entire future ahead of him.

Then he thinks of Kurt.

Beautiful, talented Kurt.

Blaine drops his head into his crossed arms and bawls. The suit he brought home for Kurt sits beside him in the passenger seat. Blaine reaches a hand over and grabs the cuff of the sleeve, holding it like he would Kurt's hand if Kurt were there to comfort him.

Kurt has become so real to Blaine in the past couple of days that Blaine feels like he _is_ there, holding Blaine's hand, whispering that everything will be okay, singing sweetly in that magical voice of his.

Blaine is trapped by the enigma of which is more devastating – the fact that Andrew lost his wife and both of his young sons, or that Kurt and Sebastian didn't get the chance to live a full life. They died so young and had so much potential. The mournful look on Catherine's face was evidence to Blaine of how much potential Kurt had, at least.

Blaine needs to know more of this story, and he has six boxes full of books that can potentially tell him, but he doesn't have the time to look through them all. He wants answers now.

He needs answers before he loses his heart completely to a man he never knew.

Horrifically enough, that includes knowing how Kurt died.

The cause of Kurt's death wasn't an essential nugget of information before – not when Blaine had assumed that Kurt grew to be an old man and died peacefully in his sleep. But now, knowing that wasn't the case, Blaine needs the truth.

But he can't face the puppets yet – not in the state he's in.

Blaine stays in the car until the air around him grows uncomfortably cold and there isn't a tear left in his body. He climbs out of his vehicle, downhearted and destitute, ready for another day to be over.

Again, he considers calling Cooper, longing for a familiar voice to talk to, even if that voice will be doing little more than making fun of him.

If Blaine has to be honest with himself, he really wants to talk to his mom.

Blaine leaves the boxes in the car but takes the suit with him when he goes to the beach house.

From down the walkway, he can hear the television still going from when he left this morning. He catches a few lines of dialogue from the movie _Some Like It Hot _before it goes to commercial.

He opens the door and curses.

It's nearly pitch black inside the living room, even with the light from outside streaming through the curtains.

Blaine swore before he left that he wouldn't leave Kurt in the dark again.

"I am _so_ sorry, guys," he says as he walks into the house, the suit draped over the crook of his arm. He locks the door behind him and immediately switches on a light. "I didn't think I was going to be out this late, but…"

He bites his tongue. He doesn't want to mention selling the toys in case that might be offensive somehow.

Blaine lays the suit down on a chair by the dining room table, trying to think of a more pleasant direction to steer the conversation, when his foot hits something hard, sending it sliding a few inches across the floor. Blaine looks down and gasps, stumbling back a step.

Sebastian's wooden torso is sprawled out on the floor, looking suspiciously like he was trying to crawl across the room to reach the sofa where Blaine left Kurt.

Blaine looks over at the sofa and finds Kurt lying in the exact position Blaine put him, but over by Blaine's blanket, stopped by the photo album, lays Sebastian's wooden head.

Whether his green eyes are aimed at Kurt or at the photo album (open to a page with a single picture of Andrew sitting with Kurt and Sebastian on either side), Blaine can't tell.

Blaine looks at the puppets, at the loose puppet head, at the picture in the album. He thinks about the journals in his car and his conversation with Catherine. There is something going on here that goes deeper than a house full of toys and two broken puppets, and Blaine feels strongly that if he puts these puppets back together, he might find out what it is.

It's a ludicrous, crazy, insane notion, but it's all he has.

Blaine doesn't want to stall any longer.

He wants to put Kurt and Sebastian back together, and now seems as good a time as any.

Blaine picks up Sebastian's torso and repositions it back up on the loveseat. Halfway through the task, his stomach growls.

"Crap," Blaine mutters. He forgot to pick something up on the way home, but he doesn't want to stop know to cook something. He looks around at the puppets and the tools and everything waiting for him to get started, but if he doesn't eat, he's not going to last too long.

He hurries reluctantly off to the kitchen to make a sandwich, with the puppets on the forefront of his mind. He pulls out a hunk of roast beef and a jar of mayonnaise from the refrigerator, and a loaf of rye bread off the counter. His mind wanders while he constructs his sandwich. He accidentally forgets the mayo the first time around and has to take the sandwich apart again to layer some on. He also grabs a glass of Coke, needing the caffeine if he's not going to get any sleep.

A loud clatter from the living room makes Blaine's head snap up. He grabs his finished sandwich and his glass of cola and rushes into the room. There Sebastian is, lying on the floor again, and Blaine rolls his eyes.

"I know, I know," Blaine says. "I'm getting to it."

He takes three more steps into the room and hears a blood curdling growl.

"RrrrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRAAAAWWWWRRRRLLLLL!"

Blaine stares at the prone torso lying on the floor with horror, his heart stopped in his chest. Blaine swallows hard, the sound of his blood pounding in his head blocking out everything else. Any minute now, the headless torso will rise up off the floor and attack him. Blaine knows it. The puppet jiggles a bit, struggling, trying to pull itself up even though it has no arms or legs. Blaine feels his knees go weak and his mouth go dry.

"Seb…Sebastian?" Blaine calls out to the possessed piece of wood dancing disjointedly on the floor. "Sebastian, is that you?"

Blaine dares a step forward, holding his drink so tight in his hand that the ice cubes knock against the side of the glass.

"Sebastian, I…"

"RrrrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRAAAAWWWWRRRRLLLLL!"

The wood torso lurches up and Blaine stumbles backward, spilling cola down the front of his shirt, the ice cold liquid soaking through to his skin.

"Fuck!" he yells, his mind swirling, preparing – with growing trepidation - to confront the puppet.

The torso falls back on the floor with a loud _CRACK _and Blaine screams. A flash of orange and the sound of footsteps pattering across the floor cut Blaine's scream short.

A cat. An orange tabby cat with a purple collar crawls out from beneath Sebastian's torso and turns on Blaine. Freed from beneath its wooden prison, the cat meows quietly. It sits in front of the door and meows again, looking from Blaine, to the door, and then back at Blaine.

Blaine stares at the creature with wide, incredulous eyes.

"What the…"

The cat meows again, more urgently this time, looking to the door and then back at Blaine.

Blaine considers the cat's wordless request while also trying to figure out how the hell the animal got into the house in the first place. They never had a pet at the beach house, so it has no pet doors or anything of the like, and Blaine hadn't left any of the windows open that he knew of. It probably waltzed on in while Blaine was unloading the puppets and the tools from the car, and had been locked up in the house all day.

Blaine steps over Sebastian's torso, puts his dinner on the dining room table - glass half-empty from the soda spilled down his shirt – and opens the door. The cat gives Blaine a last, confused look, and trots primly out the door. Blaine watches it disappear down the walk and into the night.

"A cat," Blaine says, closing the door. A cat would explain Sebastian's torso lying on the floor. It is an easier, more reasonable explanation than what Blaine had started to believe – that the puppets are haunted.

Blaine always tries to keep his mind open to the possibility that things happen in this world that there are no explanations for, but he's also his father's son, and George Anderson is a man for whom logic and reason outshine anything else. Often times, Blaine's father's voice is the voice of rationale in his head, and it wars with the other, less acceptable ideas that Blaine sometimes believes.

This is definitely one of those times.

So, as Blaine drops into his bedroom for a change of clothes, it's George Anderson's voice lecturing him to grow up and be reasonable. Blaine changes into his pajamas from earlier this morning, laying out his stained shirt on his bed and pre-treating the soda stain. Before he heads back to the dining room, he grabs his laptop. He might as well do some research while he works. Besides trying to find some information on Kurt and Sebastian, he's going to need a reference for the finer points of repairing porcelain, which is something he hasn't really done. The puppets they worked on in arts and crafts class were mostly made of felt and foam. The only time Blaine has ever tried to repair something made of porcelain was when he dropped his mother's coffee mug in the third grade. He tried and tried, but he couldn't get the handle to stay on, and the first time his mother tried to use it, the heavy mug detached from the handle and spilled hot coffee over her lap.

Taking that into consideration, Blaine decides to start by repairing the Sebastian puppet. In his heart, he really wants to get the Kurt puppet put together, but he doesn't want to screw him up. It makes Blaine feel guilty that he is, in essence, using Sebastian as a guinea pig, but Sebastian doesn't appear to be as well constructed as Kurt – the glazing on his face is spotty, the wiring holes aren't as smooth as they should be and some of them don't line up too well. The Sebastian puppet looks more like a prototype – maybe something the original artist (who Blaine is certain had to be Andrew Smythe) was practicing on with the same intentions Blaine has. If Andrew thought so little of his son (as Blaine could tell by that one entry of the journal), this seems more than likely. So as guilty as it makes him feel, starting with Sebastian seems like a good place to start. He sits Sebastian's torso upright, leaning his back against the back of the loveseat to keep him straight. He picks up Sebastian's head and fits it to the neck joint, balancing it until it sits steady. He turns to the table and finds a length of wire he salvaged from the basement workshop. He works it through the holes where they meet up, using a pointed file to widen the holes that don't quite match, and in a few minutes he manages to fix Sebastian's head to his body.

Blaine stands up straight and bends back at the waist, his back muscles aching from lifting boxes all day and then from being stooped over. He looks at his handiwork sitting on the loveseat in front of him.

A wooden Sebastian Smythe with his head attached.

Yup, Blaine thinks. He looks even more disturbing somehow than he did before.

But now he knows he can fix Kurt's neck.

Blaine grabs the wire and the file and walks over to the sofa where Kurt's body is laid out.

Blaine readjusts Kurt's head, supporting his neck in a way that seems intimate. He runs his fingers over Kurt's neck, images of kissing soft, unblemished skin filling his mind, along with a sweet, lavender smell that's conspicuously new.

Blaine clears his throat as a way to erase the image from his head. He looks at the gap in Kurt's neck, where his head separates from his body. He sees where the original wire has loosened from the holes. If this injury had happened recently, it would have been just a quick matter of tightening the wires and winding them together, but time and moisture have rusted the wires through, leaving stains on the porcelain. The stains, in Blaine's opinion, are almost as sacrilege as the damaged wires.

"I'll get rid of that," Blaine says, returning to the dining room table. He finds a tub labeled 'Porcelain Paste' - a cleaning product that he's heard of before - and a chamois. He grabs them off the table and returns to Kurt. He carefully removes the rusted wires from the holes in Kurt's neck. Then, dabbing gently at the goopy pink paste, he rubs the polish into the porcelain, removing the old rust stains.

"There," he says when the stains have been completely buffed away. "All gone. Now we can rethread some new wire in these holes, and your head should fit on your neck good as new."

Blaine puts down the polish and picks up the wire, threading the holes in pairs, connecting the joint to itself, and then to the head, making sure that at the end of each juncture the head has a full range of motion while seated on the body.

When he's done, Blaine smiles wide, carefully moving Kurt's head around on his neck.

"And that's your gorgeous head back on your neck, Kurt. Does that feel better?"

Blaine hears a soft tinkle, like a wind chime ringing only in his head – a sound that could be mistaken for laughter if there was anyone else around him that could laugh.

Blaine looks down the length of Kurt's body, at the shattered pieces and broken fragments. No amount of experimenting on Sebastian's body is going to help Blaine fix these splintered parts.

"One minute," he says, raising a single finger in front of Kurt's solitary eye and retreating back to the dining room table in search of some glue or cement, or maybe a magic wand since it's going to take as much miracle as skill to get these pieces back together.

Blaine looks at Kurt's legs and his arms, and then up at his one eye.

Thoughts of repairing Sebastian forgotten for now, Blaine decides on the part of Kurt he's going to attempt to repair first.

His eye.

He wants to look into Kurt's two beautiful blue glass eyes.

Blaine looks through the pieces on the sofa. He knows he saw it – the eye socket with the glass eye still inside. Blaine felt it was such a good omen when he stumbled across it. Gluing the eye socket back in he might be able to do. Remake an eye socket out of scratch – not so much.

Blaine finds the piece and sets it aside, going back to the table for some more supplies. He rummages through the various tubes and tubs of glues and pastes until he finds a combination that he thinks might do the trick. He grabs a piece of super fine grit sandpaper and returns to Kurt.

"Now, I'm going to be very careful," Blaine says, his heart pounding as he considers what he's about to do. Repairing Kurt was the reason why he started this whole endeavor, why he gave up his commission and his salary in the first place, but now that the time has come, he feels like there's something more than just a broken puppet on the line.

He feels like if he doesn't do this right, something more important will be lost.

Blaine picks up the eye socket and looks at the splintered edges. He roughs them up a touch with the sandpaper, and then moves to Kurt's head and does the same to the edges of the shattered hole there. This way, after applying the glue, the edges will adhere better. Blaine fits the socket back up to the hole to ensure that the piece will fit, and then he starts gluing.

With a tube of pottery glue, he outlines both sets of edges – on the shattered piece, and then around the hole. The room around them is so quiet it's fraying at Blaine's nerves. Even the waves outside seem to have stopped crashing against the shore while Blaine works.

He wants to talk to Kurt. He wants to tell him that he found out about Kurt's dad, and about the terrible tragedy of his death. He wants to tell Kurt that's he sorry – that his heart broke for Kurt when he found out. But those things happened in the past and Blaine decides it's an unnecessarily painful thing to drum up.

Blaine sets the eye socket into Kurt's head. He picks up his chamois, and with a clean corner of the fabric he wipes away the left over glue. When the surrounding porcelain is clean, he puts the chamois down, and stares at both blue eyes at once.

"You know…I keep wondering what life would have been like if we knew each other," Blaine begins, feeling this is a better path for the conversation than dredging up a depressing past. "If we had gone to school together…if we had been friends. I think I would have liked you right away. I can just feel it…" Blaine rolls his eyes. "Wow, that sounded less corny in my head."

That tinkling laugh returns, and Blaine holds his breath.

_A wind chime,_ he convinces himself, _from one of the other houses along the beach. That's all it is._

"I keep having dreams about you," Blaine divulges, dropping his voice to a whisper, "about you and me…uh…" Blaine sits back a bit, careful not to dislodge the glued piece pressed beneath his fingertips. "Well, about you and me. You know, it's stupid and preposterous and doesn't make any sense whatsoever, Kurt, but even though I never knew you…I miss you."

Blaine sighs, pulling his fingers away from the eye socket to check how it sits.

He has to look twice to believe what he's seeing.

There are no cracks around the eye socket. The shattered star pattern break is gone. The nicks and chunks knocked out of the porcelain that Blaine hadn't even had the chance to touch-up are filled in and whole. Using barely two tablespoons of glue, the eye socket looks as good as new.

"What the…"

Blaine blinks his eyes and looks closer, lifting a finger and tracing the eye socket all around. He can't even feel the break. It simply isn't there anymore.

"Oh my God," he says, picking up the tube of glue and reading the ingredients. "This stuff is amazing. Where the hell do you buy this stuff?"

Encouraged, Blaine looks at the rest of the puppet in front of him. It will most likely take him through till the morning, but he doesn't care. The first person scheduled at the house isn't showing up till noon, and now that he's started Kurt's repairs, he can't find a good reason to stop.

He moves down Kurt's body to his arm – the one that is shattered in _less_ pieces than its mate. He starts with the larger chunks, treating them the same way as the eye socket. He roughs up the edges all around the piece, roughs up the edges around the hole, and then applies glue to both pieces. On this shattered limb, it's a daunting task, as eventually a broken piece will need to connect to another broken piece, and Blaine isn't sure that he has enough of this mystical glue to make all those fragmented pieces stick.

"I heard you're a singer," Blaine continues, treading cautiously into what he knows is sensitive territory. "I'm a singer, too."

Blaine doesn't want to brag, even if it is to himself, so he moves along.

"I have so many questions," he says, not even considering whether or not that's an admission he should have kept to himself, because it naturally leads into _questions about what, exactly_? Which will reveal the things that Blaine knows about Kurt's past.

George Anderson's voice returns to tutt disapprovingly in Blaine's head as he moves on to repair the second arm.

"What are you doing, Blaine Devon Anderson!?" it scolds. "Take a look at yourself. Look at your life now! Look at how you're acting! You're not a child anymore!"

Blaine swallows hard, finishing up the arm and starting with the legs.

_No_, Blaine consoles himself. No, _he's_ right, not his father. He feels it way down to the marrow in his bones. He's right about this. He knows it. Blaine sifts through the broken pieces, sanding and gluing, fitting the puzzle of Kurt back together a piece at a time. He knows he's rushing through the repair, but he needs to finish and show his father that he's right.

Panic causes Blaine's fingers to tremble as he fits the final pieces into Kurt's leg and glues them together.

His whole body trembling, Blaine sits back on his heels and waits. He believed so hard that putting Kurt back together would do _something_, start _something_, make _something_ happen, but as he waits in the low light for Kurt to miraculously come back to life, he knows it did nothing.

Blaine looks at Kurt's unmoving face – his unbreathing puppet body.

His father's voice is right. This _is_ crazy. He's talking to himself. No one else. Just him.

He has to face the facts. Maybe there is an outrageous mystery in that Victorian house waiting for someone to solve it, but that's all.

It's the end of a long day, and Blaine is talking to himself, not these puppets.

Sebastian's puppet was pushed off the loveseat by a cat.

He didn't move himself.

Kurt and Sebastian are dead – dead and buried - and have been for a long time.

Compulsion or not, Blaine is sympathetic to that house, to the things he's seen, to the memories of heartache and despair. That's all this is. His mind and heart and soul are open conduits – always have been - searching out everyone else's pain and taking it upon himself.

The story of Kurt, Sebastian, and their parents is a horrible, awful one, but Blaine can't let it take over his life.

Blaine stands up and steps away, finding it hard to breathe.

_NYADA_. He put his future at NYADA in jeopardy for this. He still owes the school thousands of dollars before the start of the fall semester, and he gave that away for _puppets_! It was so spur of the moment when he did it – it happened so fast. What was he thinking? Where did he think he was going to find the money?

Blaine sits down at the dining room table and hunches over. He rests his elbows on his knees and buries his face in his cupped hands, breathing in deep to stop hyperventilating.

Maybe what he did is fixable. Maybe if he humiliates himself beyond belief on air, Cooper will give him his commission back, and his salary. Even if Cooper only gives him half, it might be enough with the savings he has now to get him to NYADA.

Blaine hears a whimper. It has to be his own voice, Blaine thinks. He's on the verge of tears as it is. But what if it's possibly…

He raises his eyes and looks at the mostly completed Kurt puppet. He slides off the chair onto the floor, crawling over to the couch, his eyes locked on to the puppet's vacant stare.

"Kurt," Blaine says, staring deep into the puppet's eyes, "if you're in there…if you're really here and you can hear me…please say something."

Blaine pleads to Kurt with his watery, hazel eyes as Kurt's eyes stare silently and blankly back.

"Blink your eyes," Blaine begs. "Do something. Show me I'm not crazy. Please. Tell me I didn't do all of this for nothing…tell me I didn't screw up again."

Kurt lays still and silent. He's just a puppet. Nothing special. Nothing more.

Blaine feels a sob lodge in his throat.

Blaine's parents are right. He _is_ a screw up. He looks around himself at the living room and the dining room, at everything he threw his future away for.

Blaine has to put a stop to this – a full stop right now. The story of Kurt and Sebastian and Andrew is a story – a sad story, but only a story - and Blaine is letting it affect him too much. Kurt is dead – long dead – and nothing Blaine can do will change that. Not putting together these puppets. Not throwing away his future. But Blaine is a real live human being who's lonely and sad because his parents - who he'd been close to all of his life - have completely rejected him, and he's trying to find something to hold on to. He's never had a real boyfriend and Kurt sounded like such a perfect fit. The two of them together could have been…

Ugh! He needs to stop torturing himself. He has to give this up. He is going to climb under his blanket, go to sleep, and when he wakes up in the morning, it's going to be a brand new day for Blaine Anderson.

No more ghost stories.

No more puppets.

He ignores the mess around him. He closes up the photo album, shoving the loose pictures back inside, and dumps it on the dining room table. Too tired to remake his bed, he decides to pass out on the living room floor since his comforter and pillow are already there.

He doesn't say a word to Kurt or Sebastian this time as he gets ready to go to sleep.

Blaine wraps himself tight in his blanket and puts his head down on the pillow. He sighs into the silence that surrounds him.

Silence.

Serene, peaceful silence.

The sound of something clinking lightly should catch his attention, but it doesn't. He won't let it. No more banal noises attracting his attention as if they are of the utmost importance.

No. The world around him is full of people and animals and ordinary things that make noise, things that have nothing to do with ghosts or spirits. Very natural, _normal_ things. A cat outside. The house settling. The waves rushing in and out, crashing into the shore. These are things that Blaine would like to return to.

Blaine empties his mind, preparing to focus on the future from here on out. Maybe he'll hit the beach tomorrow. He can have dinner at that café he saw on the show _Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives._ It might be a little pricey, but he deserves a treat. Who knows? Maybe he might meet someone to share an appetizer with.

Blaine sighs wistfully at the idea of a summer romance.

"Goodnight, Blaine."

Blaine breathes in deep. It takes Blaine a moment. He breathes in again…and then stops.

Blaine's eyes pop back open, his lips quivering as they try to form words while he turns his head around.

"Kurt?"

The blue eyes he's so used to looking into are open wide, but they don't seem as vacant as they did before. Suddenly, the pale pink lips split into a warm smile.

Porcelain clicks lightly as the puppet blinks his eyes.

"Hello, Blaine."


	7. Chapter 7

Blaine continues to stare at Kurt, who smiles back sweetly, unassuming, as if it's the most normal thing in the world for a broken puppet to come to life and start talking.

"Hello, Blaine," Kurt repeats. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Blaine can barely breathe. The room spins along with his brain that is stuck between screaming and running, only it hasn't made any decisions as to which he's going to do…but his body sure as hell doesn't need to be told twice.

Blaine scrambles backward, trying to stand up on the way. His feet tangle in his blanket and he falls hard on his tailbone. His hands flail in the air, reaching for something to steady him. He grabs for the chair by the dining room table but only succeeds in shoving it across the floor where it falls with a loud _CRACK_. Blaine takes one more lurch to the right, and hits the scrolled leg of the table with his shoulder. He bolts upward and smacks his head on the underside.

Stunned, Blaine lays on his back on the floor beneath the dining room table, staring into the amused but concerned eyes of the puppet that he had seconds before been trying to coax back to life. He doesn't know if he should believe his own eyes, or his ears for that matter, but in his fruitless attempt to get away, Kurt's smile has disappeared and the puppet has gone still. He lays on the sofa unblinking, unspeaking, but with that glint of intelligence shimmering in his glass eyes.

Blaine looks at Kurt, staring him in the eyes, daring him to move. Blaine's eyes start to water as he begins to think that what he saw had to have been an illusion – a stress-induced hallucination. The voice he heard had to have been in his head - simply an echo of all the things he had imagined already, or possibly a sound bite from the television, which he had neglected to turn off. The puppet blinking - that could have been a trick of the low light. He would have to replace the bulbs in the overhead fixture with a higher wattage. Squinting in this soft light is killing his eyes. Perhaps he needs glasses…

With a soft clinking sound, the puppet blinks again.

"Okay…" Blaine says out loud, needing to hear his own voice to know that he's awake, "I think that maybe…I'm a little over tired…or there's a gas leak. There was a gas leak in the McKinley choir room when…" Blaine climbs out from beneath the table as he speaks. He gets to his feet and turns to leave, reasoning with himself, trying to convince himself that he's not losing his mind - not at all missing the irony of the fact that he was trying to get Kurt to talk to him moments ago to prove the same exact thing - but a voice behind him pleads, "Please, Blaine…please, don't go."

Blaine stops walking.

He reaches out a hand and turns off the television.

In the quiet of the room, he hears a heavy sigh.

"Blaine…"

Blaine shoots a glance toward Sebastian, sitting in the loveseat with a head but no arms and legs, making no movements or sounds whatsoever.

Then Blaine turns to face Kurt.

Kurt blinks again, but his smile hasn't returned.

"Please," Kurt begs, "don't leave. I've been trying to pluck up the courage to talk to you, but I…"

Blaine pads slowly back into the living room. He feels sluggish, like he's walking through individual frames of a lucid dream. He wraps his arms around his torso, his hands gripping hard at his biceps, his body trembling from shock.

Maybe Blaine did wish for this. Maybe this was the outcome he had been hoping for, but it's overwhelming to see this puppet talking on his own.

Kurt looks on hopefully as Blaine approaches.

"Look, I'll stay quiet," he says resignedly. "I'll close my eyes and lay still, just please, don't leave me."

_Don't leave me_.

Those words fill Blaine's head with images of that dreary, damp room in the basement of the Victorian house – that horrible cell where Kurt and Sebastian were kept for all those years – and Blaine snaps out of his stupor.

"You…you're really talking to me," Blaine whispers, kneeling at Kurt's side in front of the sofa, "aren't you?"

The soft bisque face with the iridescent blue eyes smiles.

"Yes, I am," Kurt replies simply.

Blaine raises a shaking hand and presses gentle fingers to Kurt's delicate skin. He traces a line over Kurt's face with his fingers, from the center of his forehead down to his chin.

"And…I'm not going crazy?" Blaine asks, retracing the line back to Kurt's forehead.

Kurt chuckles, light and airily. It's the same as the sound in Blaine's head that he had dismissed as wind chimes.

"Well, I wouldn't go so far as to say that," Kurt replies.

Blaine furrows his brow, confused. They stare at each other for a few tense moments until Blaine understands what Kurt said.

"A joke!" he says triumphantly. "You…you just made a joke!"

Kurt rolls his eyes, but he laughs.

"Well, I tried."

Blaine nods, a fond smirk pulling up the right corner of his mouth.

"You did good."

The laughter between them fades and another tense silence returns. Kurt's eyes shift to gaze down his body, lying vulnerable and disconnected on the sofa cushions.

"Uh…do you think there's any chance that you might attach my arms and my legs to my body?" Kurt asks. Blaine watches in amazement as Kurt's cheeks appear to color, as if his inanimate porcelain flesh might be capable of blushing.

_Well, sure,_ Blaine thinks. _As long as I'm imagining things…_

He's not imagining it though. He knows he's not, but it's taking his brain longer than he'd like coming to terms with it. He reaches out a hand again, tracing the contours of Kurt's pink lips to be sure.

Kurt's eyes dart away and the stain on his cheeks becomes redder.

"Yeah," Blaine says, pulling his hand away, not wanting to make Kurt uncomfortable. "Sure, I…oh…"

Blaine looks down the length of Kurt's body and is struck by the fact that Kurt is not wearing clothes. He is ambiguously constructed, but naked.

Which of course means that Sebastian is also naked but Blaine is only prepared to deal with one such issue at a time.

Blaine's hands hover over Kurt's body, preparing to touch him, but he doesn't see him as made of porcelain anymore. He sees him as flesh and blood…_naked_ flesh and blood.

"I…um…"

"What's wrong?" Kurt asks, raising his head a bit to look at the boy whose hands are stuttering amidst his limbs.

"Nothing," Blaine says, "It's only that I…"

"Yes?"

Blaine blows out a long breath and tries to keep the nervous chuckles locked away in his throat.

"You're not wearing any clothes, Kurt," Blaine says outright, turning his head to look back at Kurt's eyes.

Kurt's face goes blank. His lips part in an expression of surprise, then a slow smile blossoms on his painted face.

"That didn't seem to bother you before," Kurt comments in a voice so smooth it's bordering on seductive.

Blaine's whole body warms at the sound of it.

"No, it didn't," Blaine agrees, "but now you're…"

"I'm broken," Kurt interrupts. "Please, put me back together?"

Blaine inhales deep.

"Of course," he says. "Of course I will."

Blaine finds the rest of the wire he had brought over from the house underneath the sofa - shoved there unintentionally in his mad dash. He looks at the parts of Kurt's body he has left to repair and decides to start with Kurt's arms first.

Kurt's eyes follow Blaine's fingers as he positions his right arm, lining up the holes in the shoulder joint, buffing out any stains with the Porcelain Paste and his chamois before he threads the wires through. Blaine feels Kurt's eyes on him. Kurt's gaze burrows beneath Blaine's skin, and an ember begins to simmer in his stomach, growing hot and vibrant, lighting him up from the inside. This is all so unreal, but incredibly so. Blaine got his wish. For whatever reason or purpose that it serves in the universe, for however long it lasts, he got some time with Kurt.

Blaine pulls the wire taut on Kurt's right shoulder and ties the ends off, snipping away the sharp edges. He then moves down his upper arm to his elbow. He hears Kurt clearing his throat - a bizarre tinkling like crackling glass, but an otherwise adorably shy sound. Blaine bites his lip to keep from laughing.

"Did you mean what you said?" Kurt asks, his voice shaky and unsure.

"You're going to have to be more specific." Blaine twists the wires to join them and repositions Kurt's arm so that the ends stay hidden. Then he continues on to Kurt's wrist.

"W-when you said…" Kurt pauses, and the arm Blaine is repairing shakes. "When you said you have dreams of us…you know…together?"

Blaine bends Kurt's wrist back and forth, and then moves each finger one at a time, checking the finer movements of the smaller joints.

"Yes," Blaine says. "It's true…I did…"

Blaine risks a look up at Kurt, whose clear blue eyes stare only at their combined hands.

"I thought about what it would have been like to know you, to go to school with you, to…uh…" Blaine stops at the words _date_, _touch_, _kiss_…

"W-why do you think you did?" Kurt asks. Blaine feels Kurt's fingers move against his palm, and he knows Kurt is moving them on his own.

Blaine shrugs.

"I'm not entirely sure," he admits, watching Kurt cautiously move his hand, then twist his wrist, and finally straighten his arm and bend the elbow. "I…"

_I what? I'm lonely? I think I'm high on mold spores from the house? I have a thing for puppets?_

_I saw all that stuff in your bedroom that I thought belonged to you until I found out you never lived there?_

Yikes…this isn't starting out well.

Kurt turns his hand and waves in Blaine's direction – a playful wiggle of his fingers. Blaine smiles. Then he frowns.

"Uh, you have some dirt…" Blaine takes Kurt's hand in his and grabs his chamois again, "on your fingertips."

"Ugh! How uncouth!" Kurt exclaims.

"I'll just give you a little manicure here and clear that up." Blaine winks at Kurt and Kurt giggles.

"What a gentleman," Kurt says with an exaggerated flirty flutter of his eyelids.

Blaine carefully turns Kurt's hand over, examining the stains. The dirt is dark and grey, and seems to be imbedded in the porcelain - in rough scratches at the tips and the pads of Kurt's fingers.

Blaine buffs the dirt away, but this stain is harder to clean than the rust stains. The color puts Blaine in mind of the walls in the basement room.

Blaine wants to know, but he shouldn't ask. He knows it's not his place.

Blaine has so many questions burning inside his head and Kurt might be his only key to answering them. Kurt has obviously been through an ordeal that Blaine can't even fathom. He should wait and give Kurt time to come to terms with what's happening to him, and in a perfect world Blaine would. But what if this is some sort of Cinderella deal? What if tomorrow evening rolls around and Kurt goes back to being a normal-_ish_ puppet again? Sure, Blaine has those journals, but the entries he's read so far are vague. If they're all like that, Blaine could read every one from beginning to end and be no closer to knowing anything than he is right now. What if Blaine loses Kurt forever and never finds out the truth?

He decides to go for it. He figures there are a hundred ways he can broach the subject; it's only a matter of finding the least offensive one.

Then, unexpectedly, Kurt gives him an in.

"Thank you," he says, watching Blaine get another dollop of Porcelain Paste on his chamois to touch up the scratches, "for getting us out of that basement."

"You're most welcome," Blaine responds with a reassuring smile. He keeps his eyes glued to his work and waits a second before diving in. "How did you guys get in that basement anyway?" he asks, going for nonchalant as he moves on to the left arm. Kurt flexes his fingers, raising them to his face and examining the finished product.

"I…I really don't remember," Kurt says sadly. "We've been down in that basement for so long, some of my memories just…end at certain points." Kurt shakes his head, his eyes narrowing as he tries to recall anything. "My first memory is of being in that room, listening to music on the radio, and that's all."

Blaine's shoulders slump.

"I'm really sorry," Kurt says. "I wish I could tell you more."

"That's alright," Blaine covers brightly, feeling tremendously guilty for pouting. "I was just curious."

_Insanely curious._

Blaine leans over Kurt's body and pulls on the wires that connect his left shoulder joint.

"So, Sebastian is your brother?" Blaine asks, hoping that this casual line of questioning might help trigger some memories.

"My brother?" Kurt sounds confused. "My brother's name was Finn. Well, he was my stepbrother."

Blaine looks up from the elbow joint he's threading to Kurt, whose eyes have flicked over to the wooden puppet.

"So, that's Finn over there?" Blaine asks befuddled, following Kurt's gaze to the other puppet.

Kurt's eyes open wide.

"No," he says, "that's Sebastian alright, only he's not my brother."

"Oh." Blaine turns back to the elbow joint and twists the wires tight. "So, he's a…"

"He's a friend," Kurt explains with a sigh. It's exasperated and wistful at the same time, full of regret and a touch of longing.

It feels like a small arrow shooting straight through Blaine's heart. Kurt watches Blaine's fingers pause for a moment and then move on to his wrist.

"Oh!" Kurt laughs nervously at the dejected boy leaning over his body. "Not that kind of friend."

Blaine smiles. He doesn't like being so obvious but he can't seem to help it. He likes Kurt. He's had days to start liking him and the feeling won't seem to go away.

"Are you going to put him back together?" Kurt asks.

"I started. I have put him together a bit," Blaine says. He ducks his head to keep his blushing cheeks out of Kurt's line of sight. "I wanted to get you fixed first."

Blaine moves from Kurt's wrist up to his ear and leans in close.

"To tell you the truth, Sebastian kind of gives me the heebie-jeebies."

Kurt's voice catches at Blaine's closeness, but he laughs at his comment.

"Sebastian?" Kurt asks incredulously. "Oh, he's a big sweetheart, really."

Blaine nods, responding with a dramatic, "Phew!" and a hand to his forehead in a gesture of relief. He returns to his work, but he can't help but feel that Kurt's assertion of his friend's true nature sounds a bit forced, like he doesn't entirely believe it himself, and Blaine feels less than comforted.

"Has he…has he said anything?" Kurt asks.

Blaine shakes his head, watching Kurt experimentally move his fixed left arm. Kurt rolls his wrist and turns his hand. Blaine sees more scratches on the fingertips of this hand, filled with more grey dirt.

"One minute," Blaine says, grabbing a hold of Kurt's hand and starting on the marks with his chamois and Porcelain Paste. Blaine tries not to show his worry as he works at the scratches. Two similar sets of scratches, in the same spot, filled with the same dirt. They're not just normal scratches either. Not the kind Kurt could have gotten from being dropped, or from running his fingers lightly over a hard surface. These look violent, like everything else in that room looked violent.

"Sebastian?" Kurt calls out, sounding inexplicably cautious. If this other puppet is Kurt's friend, why does he sound so apprehensive calling out his name. "Sebastian? Can you hear me?"

Blaine looks over his shoulder where the wooden puppet sits. He doesn't move, doesn't blink his eyes, doesn't make a sound.

"I don't understand," Kurt says, "he should be able to hear us. He should be able to respond. Why is he not…?"

"Maybe because I didn't put him back together completely the way I did you?" Blaine tries to offer as an explanation.

The fingers of Kurt's right hand tap skittishly against the wood frame of the sofa.

"Uh…actually…" Kurt starts. His words fade, and if he could have looked sheepish, his face would have. "It wasn't you putting me together that brought me back."

"Oh." Blaine puts Kurt's hand down gently and moves to repairing his legs. Blaine's body recalls the sickening edgy feeling he had while starting this repair, how his hands shook after he placed each piece, how he strove for perfection. But Kurt was aware, locked inside that puppet the whole time. Suddenly, Blaine feels very foolish.

"I mean, don't get me wrong," Kurt rushes to say when he sees Blaine's face drop. "Your putting me back together is a gift, Blaine. One I will never be able to repay. But Sebastian and I…" Kurt pauses, looking at the wooden puppet sitting stoically, watching them with empty, lifeless eyes, "We have been in that basement for a long time." Kurt sighs, and when Blaine looks up to meet his eyes, they're distant, shifting their gaze out the window. "When we were first locked in there, all we had was each other for company. We talked and talked, as if being broken and stuck in a dark room was only a hiccup. We thought that we'd eventually find a way out and pursue our hopes and dreams…all of our original plans." Kurt exhales, and his whole body seems to deflate. "But after a while, we knew no one was coming to save us, so we stopped talking, stopped planning. It didn't seem worth it. We knew we were done for. But we weren't quite finished." Kurt turns to look at Blaine, working his way from joint to joint, bending Kurt's leg at the knee to make sure the wiring fits the holes competently. "We have heard time pass by over our heads," Kurt explains. "I have heard it in conversations outside our door and television shows from somewhere inside the house. I know all about progress and technology - things like microwaves and compact cars, cell phones and the Internet. We listened to life swirl by around us, unable to raise a hand or lift a foot to meet it. It's been long and frightening and lonely." Blaine moves up to the hip of Kurt's left leg, and Kurt reaches out a hand to pull his focus. "I'm so glad you found us, Blaine. You have no idea."

Blaine looks at the hand cupping his face and smiles.

"I'm glad I found you, too."

Blaine works longer on Kurt's legs than he did his arms, triple checking every joint, every connection, before he gives Kurt the go ahead to try and stand. Blaine stands first, and putting an arm beneath his shoulder helps Kurt to a sitting position. Kurt gasps softly at the change in position, his face glowing with happiness that might have turned to tears of joy if he were human.

"Looking good," Blaine says, watching Kurt scan the living room and dining room with his eyes. Kurt stretches his arms out ahead of him, wiggling his fingers, then straightens his legs and wiggles his toes. He sets his feet down on the floor, pressing them firmly into the blanket Blaine has laid out on the floor. He sees Blaine's hands reach out for him and he takes them, wrapping smooth porcelain fingers around warm human flesh and holding on tight.

"Okay, on the count of three…"

Kurt nods at Blaine's instruction, keeping his eyes on Blaine's face.

"One…two…"

Before Blaine reaches three, Kurt vaults up off the couch. His foot slides beneath him, sending him stumbling forward straight into Blaine's arms.

"Three," Blaine finishes his countdown with a laugh, speaking into the silky strands of Kurt's hair. Blaine hadn't really paid much attention to Kurt's hair before, other than to notice that it existed, but now with it beneath his nose, tickling his face, it's full and soft…and feels human.

Kurt's body in his arm shivers and Blaine's fantasies threaten to resurface.

_Not now,_ he thinks. _Please, not now._

_"__It feels like you…Everything is you…all around me…it's you…"_

The breathy voice bounces around Blaine's head, and then dissolves away.

Kurt stands in Blaine's arms, elongating his back till he reaches his full height – an inch or two taller than Blaine.

"Hello, you," Kurt says in a remnant of that breathless voice in Blaine's head.

"Are you ready to walk?" Blaine asks, looking over Kurt's legs anxiously, hoping the magical glue will hold.

"I…I think so." Kurt takes a tentative half-step out of Blaine's embrace. He takes a full step back, placing his right foot flat on the floor, then follows with the left, until Blaine is holding Kurt at arm's length.

Then, Kurt lets go.

He wobbles at first and Blaine prepares to rush forward if Kurt needs help, but Kurt stands steady on his own two feet. He looks down at his feet on the floor, then up at Blaine's smiling face.

He turns and takes a step, then another, and another, his porcelain feet _click click clicking_ across the floor.

"Oh, Blaine," Kurt says with a giddy but content sigh. "Blaine, look at me. I'm walking."

Blaine follows Kurt at a distance, letting Kurt feel freedom for the first time in decades with the assurance of Blaine's arms not too far behind.

Kurt becomes more daring and extends his arms out, swaying them from side to side, spinning once, and then continuing on, shuffling across the floor like he's dancing.

Kurt sways and spins and laughs until he reaches the point where he started. Blaine, having anticipated Kurt's direction, circles back around the sofa while Kurt dances, so when Kurt reaches the start, he ends up back in Blaine's arms.

"I…I can't believe it," Kurt says, looking down at his arms and legs. "I can walk again."

Blaine takes Kurt's arm and examines it closely, hoping that the stress of moving didn't cause anymore breaks. Blaine turns Kurt's right arm into the light, and then picks up his left and examines that one, too. The hairline breaks, the tiny cracks, all the missing chips have healed – completely gone, leaving smooth, unblemished porcelain behind. He drops down to the floor, kneeling at Kurt's feet. He looks over Kurt's legs, brushing his nose against them as he gets the closest view possible, and finds the same thing – no nicks, no breaks, no scratches. Kurt's limbs look as perfect as they must have on the first day they were fired.

Kurt's legs shake when Blaine touches him, but Blaine is so agog at the undamaged porcelain that he doesn't notice right away, until Kurt bumps Blaine accidentally on the cheek with his knee.

Blaine looks up at Kurt from where he's crouched on the floor. Kurt's arms are crossed over his chest, his cheeks flaming red.

"Can you feel that?" Blaine asks, running a hand down Kurt's calf. Kurt jumps, taking a step back, teetering close to falling onto the couch.

"No," Kurt reveals, "I can't, but…it's still…I was wondering if you might have something I could wear?"

Blaine has a thought about teasing Kurt for catching a sudden case of modesty after being so suggestive before, but he's too excited at the thought of showing Kurt the suit he brought from the house just for him. He stands up quickly, turning Kurt back toward the sofa.

"Oh," Blaine says, sitting Kurt down gently before rushing to the dining room, "I brought you this." He picks up the suit, presenting it proudly to Kurt who at first smiles, then looks suspiciously devoid of emotion, and then suddenly looks horrified.

"Uh, that's great," Kurt says, his eyes glued to the suit, his porcelain lips set in a straight line, his hands gripping the sofa for dear life. His voice wavers when he talks. "But, do you think, maybe, I could wear something else? Um…maybe, I could borrow something of yours? If it's not too much trouble?" Kurt looks like he's trying to swallow something hard, an emotion that wants to break through at the presence of the suit, but he can't. Blaine catches on, shoving the suit behind his back so Kurt doesn't have to look at it anymore.

"Yeah, of course." Blaine rushes to his room, turning and walking backward as he passes Kurt so that Kurt doesn't catch another glimpse of the offending outfit. Blaine feels slightly disappointed when he hangs the suit up in his closet. The image of Kurt in that suit is stamped crystal clear in his memory; he had longed to see him in it. But Kurt looked afraid of it, and Blaine has no intention of hurting Kurt further if he can help it. He rummages through his drawers for an extra t-shirt and pair of pants. Kurt is a bit taller than Blaine, and quite a bit thinner, but Blaine is sure that a pair of his pants will do for now.

Blaine returns quickly to the living room with the new clothes in his arms. Kurt has moved from the sofa, and is up in the dining room, bent over Sebastian's wooden body, looking carefully into the other puppet's face. Kurt raises a hand and runs it down Sebastian's cheek. He's whispering in Sebastian's ear. Blaine can make out the dulcet tones of Kurt's voice, but he can't hear what Kurt is saying.

Blaine gives Kurt a moment longer to confer with his friend, then clears his throat so as not to startle him. Kurt stands bolt upright, turning on an unsteady foot, and toppling to the left. Blaine rushes forward to help him, grabbing him around the waist before he can fall. Blaine pulls Kurt up straight, his body light in Blaine's arms, and Kurt ends up with his face inches from Blaine's. Blaine's eyes drop subconsciously to Kurt's lips, painted pink and so human looking - like soft, pliant skin.

So much like the skin in his fantasies.

Kurt looks back at him, his eyes dropping the same way, but then returning to Blaine's eyes.

"I…got something for you to wear," Blaine says, setting Kurt on the floor, holding him to make sure he's steady on his feet. "It's not all that stylish, but it's comfortable." Blaine holds the shirt and pants out to Kurt, and Kurt smiles when he sees them.

"Thank you," he says, taking the garments one at a time, slipping the shirt on and then the pants. Kurt putting on the clothes is an awkward-looking process, and surreal on top of that to watch a puppet dress himself. But Blaine sees past all of that, because Kurt is here. Kurt is here, and that starts to erase some of the melancholy of earlier when Blaine could only think of how tragically short Kurt's life had been cut.

Blaine adverts his eyes to look at Sebastian's face – still in light of everything that's happening. It makes Blaine feel uneasy, but he doesn't know why.

"Do you think he's okay?" Blaine asks in opposition to the question he wants to know the answer to – why is Kurt aware and Sebastian isn't?

"I don't know," Kurt says, turning back to his friend. "Maybe he gave up and went away. Or maybe he's…" Kurt turns to Blaine, distressed. "Maybe he's trapped." Kurt sounds concerned, and as terrible as being trapped sounds, Blaine is willing to let it lie for the night. He would rather concentrate on Kurt.

Blaine puts a hand to Kurt's face, tracing a finger over his smooth cheeks.

"We'll find a way to fix it," Blaine says, "if it means that much to you, I'll do my best to find a way."

Kurt smiles, his glass eyes flicking over to take a look at Sebastian before focusing on Blaine's face.

"Thank you," he says.

Blaine feels Kurt slip a hand into his, and Blaine wraps his fingers around it.

Blaine tries to hold back a yawn, but he can't help himself. All of this is too much for his brain to handle. Coupled with the stress at the house, and the fright of the unwelcomed cat visitor, he needs to get some sleep.

"Oh, no," Kurt teases, catching Blaine yawn. "Am I losing you?"

"Hmmm, maybe only a little," Blaine mutters. "This has been a long and…kind of confusing day."

Blaine yawns again and Kurt laughs.

"Come on," Kurt says. He tugs on Blaine's hand, leading him back to the sofa.

"No," Blaine whines. "I want to stay up and talk to you."

"You can talk to me when you wake up," Kurt says. Kurt stretches back out on the sofa cushions and Blaine crawls beneath his comforter.

"But, what if you go away?" Blaine asks through a yawn. "I don't want you to leave me."

_Don't leave me_.

Kurt catches Blaine's tired eyes.

"I'm not going anywhere," Kurt says. "I've been around an awful long time, waiting to be rescued. You rescued me, and I'm not leaving now."

Blaine nods, satisfied with Kurt's answer. He rests his head on his pillow, finding the pathway to sleep easier than he had the past few nights.

"I'm glad you found me, Blaine," Kurt whispers, running his fingers through Blaine's curls lightly, partially in the hopes that Blaine won't catch him. "Thank you for putting me back together."

Blaine smiles, relaxing at the feeling of Kurt playing with his hair.

"Thanks for talking to me."

Kurt watches Blaine's breathing slow, and then follows suit, closing his eyes, a small smile on his doll-like face.

Blaine drifts away, finally feeling at peace.

From behind him, on the loveseat, Sebastian blinks his green eyes.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** _Here we get a peek at how far Blaine's 'powers' might extend, and a clue to who might be making an appearance very soon. Warning for nightmares and anxiety.  
_

It's a beautiful dream that Blaine was having before exhaustion and strain claim him for their own, wrapping their silky arms around him and dropping him into a deep, comfortable sleep. Seeing Kurt walk, talking to him, holding Kurt in his arms as if he were alive - it was the realization of everything Blaine had wanted, and his mind gave that to him.

It is a perfect form of closure before he continues on with the rest of his life, putting away all these childish things, giving up on fairytales and impossible happy endings.

Unfortunately, it doesn't stay that way.

Shortly before he wakes, the nightmares start, and every single one of them is about Kurt. Kurt running for his life, scared, trapped, scratching frantically at…at _something_. Blaine sees the very tips of Kurt's porcelain fingers bleeding as he claws to get away, not caring at all when fragments of his delicate skin start to chip off because he needs to escape, to climb out of the basement room, to break free.

Kurt turns his head to look over his shoulder at the horrific thing that pursues him. His blue eyes – watery with tears – open wide in horror. He squeezes his eyes shut in anticipation of the blow to come.

Blaine feels the strike in his sleep, because now he's seeing everything through Kurt's eyes. He doesn't see _what_ hits him exactly, but it's hard like steel. It strikes him on the forearm, shattering the bone. Blaine opens his mouth to scream, but all the air in his body escapes with the impact, and nothing but a choked, gargled noise comes out.

His cruel attacker strikes him again and again – on his shoulder, dislodging his arm; on his hip, cracking the joint; on his face, destroying his eye. He falls to the floor, alive but broken, his heart sinking in his chest as he watches legs clad in black pants and a pair of heavy boots walk backward out a narrow doorway. A dark, featureless face, obscured by the bright light of the room beyond, looks down at him. The door is pulled shut as his attacker leaves, and the room goes completely black.

The dream ends there, but Blaine's mind stays blank for what seems like an endless stretch of time.

Blaine feels the morning call to him, pulling him from sleep way too early. He tries to shrug it off but it niggles at him to at least open his eyes.

He blinks droopy eyelids, forcing them to open against their will. He starts to see light and images, but he can't shake the feeling that he's still dreaming. The room is coated in a bright haze – a band of morning sunlight glowing just above his head. He can see the dust motes twirling in the air around him, hear the distant roar of the tide rushing for the shore. His eyes sweep the living room. Kurt lies on the sofa beside him with his eyes shut, one arm dangling over the edge from when he was running his fingers through Blaine's hair. Blaine smiles. Kurt looks almost completely human in this fog of ebbing sleep and low light. Blaine rolls away from the sleeping puppet to get a glimpse at the time on his cell phone.

_4:23 a.m._

Blaine tries to groan with displeasure, but the air in his lungs feels dense and oppressive, like a weight sitting on his chest.

His eyes flick up toward the dining room, taking inventory of all the things he left lying around. He stops when he sees Sebastian peering down on him, painted green eyes open wide and awake, his wooden mouth twisted into a sinister grin.

Blaine peers back, but he knows there is no way this could be real. Sebastian hasn't woken. Sebastian isn't aware.

It's a dream – all of it a dream. He is still alone, surrounded by his stupidity.

There is no Kurt or Sebastian anymore, and puppets don't move and dance and speak.

"Blaine…"

Blaine feels something cold and hard touch his skin, and the nightmares flood back. He whimpers as he tries to fight through the wall of sleep keeping him trapped behind his eyelids.

"Blaine…"

A gentle shake, but Blaine's sleep addled mind reads it as the beginning of more torture.

"No," he mutters. "No…please…"

"Blaine?" The voice is soft and Blaine finds comfort in it – but it's a shallow comfort. If this voice – from a source of kindness and compassion - is there with him, then its innocent owner is going to be beaten and tortured alongside him.

Blaine has to protect him, no matter the cost.

"Blaine?"

"No!" Blaine screams, shaking himself awake, sitting upright on the floor. His head swims with the quick jolt of his body, and the room around him tips and twirls. Sunlight plunges through his eyes and into his brain, burning away the rest of his dreams. Blaine pants rapidly, sucking in cool air into his lungs. He spins his head left and right, looking around him for reassurance that he's not locked away in that basement cell.

That he's not broken into a million pieces.

"Blaine!" Two hands on his shoulders shake him vigorously, and Blaine's face snaps in their direction.

Kurt. It's Kurt. Kurt the puppet. Kurt the _living_ puppet, staring at him.

"Ku-…Kurt?" Blaine blinks his eyes over and over, afraid that one blink more will make Kurt disappear into thin air, but his vision only gets clearer, and Kurt's face becomes sharper.

"Blaine…sweetheart." Kurt cups Blaine's cheek with his porcelain hand. "I think you were having a bad dream."

Blaine raises a hand and covers Kurt's, holding it closer against his skin.

"You're here," Blaine whispers, closing his eyes to absorb the feeling of _Kurt_ into his skin.

"Yes, I'm here," Kurt says with a shy smile. "I told you, I'm not going anywhere."

Blaine nods, keeping Kurt's hand pressed against his cheek for as long as possible. He opens his eyes to see Kurt staring back at him with a curious expression on his face. Blaine's breathing slows, the soothing effects of Kurt's presence seeping into his body.

_It wasn't a dream_, he thinks with relief. _Not a dream. Kurt is not a dream_.

Blaine remembers there's one more thing he needs to check to make 100% sure that he's not dreaming.

His eyes shift to look at the loveseat. Sebastian sits there stolid, his position and expression utterly unchanged.

Blaine sighs. Maybe he _is_ going crazy, but as long as he has Kurt there with him, he couldn't care less. Where's the crazy? Bring it on.

Blaine takes a breath in, looking Kurt over from head to toe, drinking in this vision of Kurt dressed in his clothes, knowing that Kurt slept in them…

"What are you doing up so early?" Blaine asks, hoping to segue past Kurt's worried expression and his eventual hard-to-answer questions into a comfortable, easygoing conversation.

Kurt's eyes narrow a bit, but then his face brightens. He knows that Blaine is bypassing the issue of his nightmares, but Kurt doesn't want to pry. If Blaine wants to share this with him, he will.

"I wanted to make you breakfast," Kurt says, motioning with his chin to the dining room table. Blaine turns his head into the light, purposefully ignoring Sebastian and looking at the table. He sees a place mat set on the table in front of the chair with a glass of orange juice sitting upon it. Beside the glass is a plate of food with steam rising up from it. Blaine can't see what's on the plate, but he takes a deep breath in to settle himself and is bombarded by the most glorious smell of eggs and bacon.

He doesn't often eat breakfast in the mornings; when he does, it's not at the house. He's eaten more fast food meals than he would like to admit, which are becoming a problem to both his wallet and his waistline. A home cooked meal is a blessing. He turns his eyes back to Kurt, smiling as that beautiful stain of red returns to Kurt's cheeks.

Without noticing it, Blaine had smelled the food and moaned out loud.

"Kurt," Blaine says, rising to his feet, helping Kurt up as he does. "You didn't have to do that."

Kurt shakes his head, tsk-ing as he leads Blaine up to his meal.

"I never understand that," he says, a soft clinking noise chasing his words when his lips come together as he talks.

"Understand what?" Blaine asks. He reaches out for the chair but Kurt beats him to it, pulling it out so that Blaine can slide into the seat.

"When people say _you didn't have to do that_ instead of saying _thank you_." Kurt picks up a cloth napkin (Blaine didn't even remember that they _had_ cloths napkins at the house) and tucks the end into the collar of Blaine's shirt. Blaine holds his breath when Kurt's fingertips brush his bare skin, but Kurt doesn't hear, and continues on. "I mean, I know I didn't have to. I did it because I wanted to, and it's obviously too late now. I can't uncook the bacon or unscramble the eggs and stuff them back into their shells."

Blaine chuckles at the passion in Kurt's voice, light-hearted as his tone is, but so sincere in his convictions.

Kurt hands Blaine his fork, staring at him with a painted eyebrow arched.

"What?" he asks, slightly taken back by Blaine's reaction.

"Oh, nothing," Blaine says, taking the offered fork from Kurt's fingers. "It's…I can listen to you talk all day."

The blush in Kurt's cheeks darkens to alarming proportions.

"Why, Blaine…uh, what's your full name?"

Blaine tilts his head.

"Why?" he asks with a sly grin.

Kurt puts his hands on his hips.

"Because how am I to properly scold you if I don't know your full name?"

"Oh," Blaine says with another chuckle. "It's Blaine Devon Anderson."

"Blaine Devon Anderson," Kurt copies, letting the words roll through his mouth, dance over his tongue. The sound of Kurt saying Blaine's full name so thoughtfully sends a wave of heat washing through Blaine's whole body, flowing out to the tips of his limbs and back, settling finally in the vicinity of his groin.

Subconsciously, he crosses his legs at the knees, dulling this new ache.

"Sh-shouldn't I know _your_ full name?" Blaine stammers. "In case I need to scold _you_?"

The words come out before Blaine considers how they might come across in his slightly breathless voice.

They sound unintentionally inappropriate.

The blush on Kurt's cheeks flames so brightly, Blaine is surprised when the paint doesn't melt off of Kurt's face.

Blaine can tell by the look in Kurt's eyes that a flurry of comments is passing through his mind, but Kurt is flummoxed as to how he should respond.

"Not that you'll be scolding me, but my given name is Kurt Elizabeth Hummel," he responds.

"Kurt…Elizabeth…Hummel," Blaine repeats slowly, savoring each name as it passes over his lips. Kurt brings his hands up to cover his burning cheeks, hiding them too late to escape Blaine's notice.

"Y-yes," Kurt says with a stutter. "My name is Kurt Elizabeth Hummel, and…wh-what was I saying?"

"I believe you were scolding me."

Blaine swallows hard when Kurt's jaw drops.

Was he _really_ thinking of kissing Kurt right now?

"Quite right," Kurt says with that strange cough that would be the sound of him clearing his throat if he were human. "Blaine Devon Anderson!" he starts again, trying to re-ignite the fire in his voice. "Are you getting fresh with me?"

"Uh…yes?" Blaine replies, not entirely familiar with Kurt's colloquial turn of phrase.

Kurt gasps in the most scandalized way and Blaine bursts out laughing.

"Uh…uh…" Kurt stutters, trying to grab a hold of the situation. Blaine snorts unattractively, struggling to breathe. He watches Kurt's face go blank and Blaine shakes his head.

"I'm sorry," Blaine coughs, trying not to choke. He puts down his fork and stands from his chair, turning to face the adorable puppet with the trembling lower lip. "Let's start this over." Blaine takes Kurt's hands, which have dropped from his hips to his sides, and holds them in his hands, rubbing over Kurt's knobby knuckles with his thumbs. "Thank you for making me breakfast this morning, Kurt. I really appreciate it." Blaine bites his lower lip when Kurt doesn't respond. Taking a chance that he isn't going to get himself slapped across the face, he leans in and kisses Kurt's cheek.

"Oh." Kurt puts a hand up to his face, carefully covering the kiss. "Um…you're welcome," Kurt says. Blaine steps away, rounding the table to get another chair from the opposite side. Blaine drags the chair over and sets it up beside his own. He takes a hold of Kurt's hand and leads him to it, pulling it out so the puppet can sit down. With a tongue tied Kurt sitting at the table, Blaine drops into his own chair and starts in on his meal.

Kurt watches Blaine take the first bite of his eggs, scrutinizing Blaine's face as he chews. Blaine leans back in his chair and closes his eyes as he devours his food.

"Mmmm," Blaine moans. "Oh good Lord, that's good."

Kurt crosses his hands in his lap, running his tongue over his lips as he watches Blaine take another bite. When Blaine goes in for a fourth bite of his eggs, he notices Kurt watching him.

"Aren't you going to have breakfast?" Blaine asks, putting a hand up over his mouth as he talks between chews.

"I…I don't eat," Kurt admits, his heel tapping nervously against the wood floor with a staccato _clickclickclickclick_.

"Oh," Blaine says, giving himself a mental punch. Kurt nods his head, which is bowed, his eyes staring down at his folded hands. "Well, you're an excellent cook. This is really good."

"It's just eggs," Kurt says, waving a dismissive hand in the air. "But when I was…uh…I used to cook all the time."

Blaine watches Kurt's eyes go distant as he tries to recall the memory of his life – a life that has been over longer than he's let himself acknowledge. Blaine sits silently, letting Kurt mull over his fuzzy thoughts, trying to bring them to the surface.

"I used to bake all the time with my mom," Kurt reveals. "She was so good at it…so much more than me. We made cakes and pies and cookies all the time together. Every weekend during the summer, some social groups in our town would have a fundraiser or a bake sale – the Daughters of the American Revolution, the Kiwanis, the Soroptimist Club…" Kurt's words drift away and another distant look clouds his eyes.

"Was your mother a member of all those clubs?" Blaine asks, hoping to encourage Kurt into giving him a little more insight into his childhood.

"No," Kurt answers with a smile, "but my mom believed in supporting organizations that did good works, especially for women, and we didn't have any money, so this was the only way we could help out." Kurt raises his head to look at Blaine, eyes full of emotion despite being made of glass. "It worked, too. Her sour cream double chocolate fudge brownies were legendary," Kurt says proudly. "They were the toast of five counties. She won the blue ribbon for them at the Allen County Fair twelve years running."

"Really?" Blaine discreetly finishes his eggs and moves on to his bacon, continuing to eat in part because he's starving, but also because he doesn't want to hurt Kurt's feelings, especially when he's telling this sensitive story.

"Yeah." Kurt raises a hand to wipe a tear away, but drops it back to his lap halfway when he remembers who he is now. "She baked all the time. She said that it was one of the ways that her mother taught her to show love, and she baked for me because she loved me so much, all the way up until…"

Kurt's voice breaks, and Blaine's heart along with it.

"Oh, Kurt…" Blaine gets up from his seat, walks over to Kurt's chair, and kneels at the puppet's feet. He takes Kurt's hand in his. "I'm sorry…I didn't know…"

Kurt shakes his head. He sniffles. It's a pointless, ingrained reaction.

"I didn't remember until now," Kurt whispers. "She was sick for a long time. She and my dad knew, but they didn't tell me because they knew there was nothing anyone could do for her, and they didn't want me to be upset during her last few years."

Blaine rests the hand in his against his cheek and Kurt smiles weakly through the veil of his grief.

"She died a few months after I turned eight-years-old, shortly after Christmas…"

Kurt crumbles forward, pulling his hand out of Blaine's grasp to cover his eyes. Blaine rises up on his knees to meet him and catches Kurt up in his arms. Kurt's chest heaves and he sobs – his cries muted and with not a single tear rolling down his face to show for all his misery.

"I'm so sorry," Blaine mutters under his breath, feeling impotent to help in any way.

Kurt shakes his head against Blaine's shoulder.

"Don't be, please. It's not your fault. None of this is _your_ fault."

Kurt's voice is thick with meaning, and Blaine thinks he understands.

Kurt is not referring to his mother's death.

It's not _Blaine's_ fault that Kurt is here, trapped in this puppet body, alive beyond his time, having to relive these awful memories of love and loss, and God knows what else that's going to crop up in the next few days.

It's someone's fault, though. Someone did this to him.

But that person is not Blaine.

Kurt's cries die down to sniffles, and Blaine turns his head to look into Kurt's face.

"Kurt…may I ask you a question?"

"Hmm?" Kurt looks into the hazel eyes shining up at him with a touch of mischief lighting their golden flecks.

"Do you happen to have the recipe for those brownies? They sound really good."

Kurt stares a second, sniffles one last time, then laughs.

"No…" he says. "Well, yeah…I mean, I know how to make them. I have that one memorized. All the rest are written down in a book that my mom gave me, but I lost it in the fi-"

Kurt sits up suddenly, shaking his head back and forth hard until his neck joint rattles, and Blaine becomes afraid that he cracked something.

"Kurt, hold on," Blaine says in a soothing voice, taking Kurt's head in his hands and trying to hold it still long enough to examine it. Kurt's body shudders, but he falls still between Blaine's hands. Blaine tilts Kurt's head gently to examine his neck. The joint looks sound except for a single wire that has become loose. Blaine twists the ends tight, all the while running his fingers through Kurt's hair – hair that has been brushed and styled since the night before. "It's alright," Blaine whispers.

"I know," Kurt agrees. "I have a chance I didn't have before, and I am so grateful for that…but it comes with a price..."

Kurt's smile is gone, and Blaine would do anything to make that smile return.

"Hey…" Blaine brushes Kurt's hair back, enjoying the feeling of touching Kurt in this intimate way, "I have some things I have to do today, but when I come back, do you want to go out and do something fun?"

Kurt's whole face changes at Blaine's question, and the carefree young boy from earlier this morning emerges.

"Are you asking me out on a date, Blaine Anderson?" he asks, the red color creeping into his cheeks again.

Blaine hadn't intended it to be a date. He _did_ want to ask Kurt out on a date, but Blaine thought it was too soon. He didn't think Kurt would say yes.

But here it was, Kurt smiling up at him with that enticing flush on his pale face, looking adorably hopeful.

Instead of stumbling his way through a lame explanation and ruining this moment, Blaine simply says, "Yes."

"Well, then I accept," Kurt says, clapping his hands in front of his chest.

"Great." Blaine stands, too excited to remain crouched on the ground, ready to get his work at the Victorian house started and finished so he can get to his date with Kurt.

His _date_ with Kurt.

He's still considering the improbability that such a concept even exists in the universe when he feels Kurt tugging at his shirt.

"Only…" Kurt stands, crowding close to Blaine, almost whispering in his ear, "would you mind if I came with you today? To your work?" Kurt's eyes peek once at Sebastian subconsciously. "I'll stay out of the way. I promise. I won't even get out of your car."

Blaine peeks at Sebastian, too, but the wooden puppet has not moved,

"Sure," Blaine says. "Did you want to see the inside of the house?"

"No," Kurt answers before Blaine finishes asking his question. "No," he laughs lightly, "I don't think I'm ready for that yet."

"Okay," Blaine says, deciding not to ask if Kurt's decision has anything to do with Sebastian's puppet and everything he represents.

"You don't mind?" Kurt asks with questioning eyes and a small frown. "I don't want to impose."

"No! You're not imposing. Are you…are you kidding?"

Blaine's words run over one another in an effort to be heard.

"Alright, alright," Kurt says, taking Blaine's hand. "I believe you. You know…you're kind of cute when you get nervous."

_"Are you nervous?" Kurt asks, his lower lip quivering as Blaine's fingers work through the buttons on his shirt._

_"A little," Blaine admits. The button he's working on pops off Kurt's shirt. Kurt stifles a laugh as the little disk of plastic flies through the air in front of his face. "Okay, maybe more than a little, but it's not because I don't want to do this."_

_"Then, why?" _

_"Because, I want this so badly," Blaine explains, his voice wavering with his bravery slipping. "I…I want it so badly with _you_, I mean, but I've never done this before, and I don't want you to be disappointed."_

_Kurt lies back on the pillow beneath his head and pulls Blaine along with him, giving in to his need for one more kiss before he lets Blaine remove the rest of his clothes._

_"I have waited so long for the perfect moment," Kurt says, "the perfect time, the perfect place, the perfect guy. I think most people want all that, but unlike most people I lucked out, because I got all four…but especially the perfect guy."_

_Blaine ducks his head, smiling against Kurt's skin._

_"You can't disappoint me," Kurt says, placing a kiss to Blaine's curls. "Not even if you tried."_

_Blaine presses a kiss to Kurt's exposed neck, against soft _human_ skin._

_"Blaine…" Kurt moans, prompting Blaine to kiss him again and again, each new moan eliciting a kiss. _

_"Blaine…Blaine…Blaine…"_

"Blaine…"

Kurt tugs on Blaine's hand. Blaine turns his head at the sound of his name. Kurt's hand in his pulls him from his fantasy, from the image of Kurt lying on his back in Blaine's bed, bare chested, eyes shut, moaning Blaine's name.

"Huh?" Blaine mutters as Kurt's face – his real, here now, puppet face – comes into view.

"Do you need some more sleep?" Kurt asks. "You kind of spaced out there for a second."

Blaine nods, watching the picture in his head dissolve until there's not a wisp of it left.

"I guess I did," Blaine agrees, "but I'm fine. Wanna help me pick out what I'm going to wear today?"

"Oh, Mr. Anderson," Kurt says with his flair for melodrama, "you do know your way to my heart. Lead me to your bedroom and take me to your wardrobe, kind sir."

Blaine laughs as he pushes Kurt toward his room, the sound of something wood tapping gently against wood lost amid the patter of their feet on the floor.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** _Warning for slight anxiety._

Blaine ushers a giggling and squirming Kurt through his bedroom door when a thought suddenly hits him like a heat-seeking missile.

The suit.

Blaine had forgotten about the suit.

The beautifully tailored but puzzling pariah suit that Blaine had brought back from the Victorian house.

The suit Blaine had so wanted to see Kurt wear, so he could relive the vision of the beautiful young man with the sorrowful eyes.

The suit that Kurt seems to fear for unexplained reasons.

That suit is hanging in Blaine's closet where he had hastily shoved it among his shirts and slacks.

_Shit_!

Everything is going so well between him and Kurt, and Blaine is so excited over the prospects of a date with Kurt, that he doesn't remember the suit until they walk into his bedroom and Kurt zeros in on his closet. Blaine runs ahead to intercept him, sliding between Kurt and the door at the exact last minute, covering the doorknob with his hand to keep Kurt from touching it.

"Blaine!" Kurt laughs. "What are you doing?"

"Uh…I just forgot," Blaine stammers. "My closet…it's a mess."

"Oh, I don't care about messes," Kurt says, touching Blaine's shoulder and giving him a gentle push to move him out of the way.

"Oh, b-but this mess is massive…" Blaine stutters. "I mean, really, really massive, and…"

"I'm sure I'll survive," Kurt reassures him. He pushes on Blaine' shoulder again but Blaine doesn't budge. Kurt takes a step back and puts his hands on his hips, his mouth twisting at the corner as he tries to think of a way around blockade Blaine. Kurt feigns for the doorknob, but pulls back when Blaine reaches out for him and stumbles. Kurt lunges forward and nudges Blaine aside with his hip, laughing at the look of distress on Blaine's face that Kurt is sure is only part of his teasing.

"A-ha!" Kurt cheers and grabs the doorknob, turning it and pulling the door open.

"No, Kurt!" Blaine pleads. "Wait!"

"Too late!" Kurt laughs. He opens the door and looks inside, prepared to guffaw at the colossal disarray, but instead he is struck by how neat and tidy it is. "Oh!" Kurt groans dramatically. "Yes, I can see why you would want to keep this hidden! Your closet is atroc-"

Kurt's voice cuts off the second he lays eyes on it.

The suit sticks out like a sore thumb.

Constructed of light-weight, overly black fabric, it is almost a void among the bright colors and patterns of Blaine's modern wardrobe.

Kurt's mouth drops and he simply stares, unable to move his eyes away or utter a single word. Blaine fills in the silence.

"I am _so_ sorry, Kurt," he says, his hands poised over Kurt's shoulders as he tries to figure out a way to pull the puppet away. "I didn't have any place to put it, and I thought…maybe…well, I didn't know why you…"

Blaine sighs. Nothing he can think to say makes any sense. If he knew _why_ the suit bothered Kurt so much he would know how to better handle his response. He should have shoved it underneath his bed, but Blaine didn't want to ruin it. He had thought for a moment that maybe the reaction he had interpreted as fear was simply shock, and that after some time had passed Kurt might consider wearing it.

Kurt closes his mouth and raises a hand, reaching into the closet to touch the sleeve of the suit.

"You didn't do anything wrong," Kurt says in a weakened voice. "It's…it was given to me on the day I was broken. It's not a day that I like to remember."

As is becoming the norm, Blaine's mouth speaks before his mind has a chance to censor it.

"Who broke you, Kurt?"

Kurt stares at the suit, as if it might speak in his stead and give Blaine the correct answers.

"I don't…I don't remember." Kurt turns to Blaine, his glass eyes apologetic. "I really want to remember, believe it or not. I do, it's only…"

"I had a dream," Blaine reveals, "and in that dream, I saw you running. I think you were running through that house I took you from. Then, I became you - puppet you. I ran into that room in the basement where I found you, and someone I couldn't see started to hit me with a hard object. It felt like metal maybe. Like a tire iron or…"

"No…" Kurt cuts in, shaking his head. "A bat. A baseball bat." Kurt runs his finger around the cuff of the sleeve. "I wanted to be free," he says, his eyes traveling up and down the fabric. "We both did…Sebastian and me. But he wouldn't let us. He gave me this suit. He said that I belonged to him. Sebastian tried to reason with him…" Kurt's expression becomes tight; he squeezes his eyes shut. "Sebastian stood up to him…he took the first few blows for me."

"Who?" Blaine asks, putting his hands on Kurt's shoulders and turning the puppet to face him. "Who wouldn't let you be free?"

Kurt sighs, dropping the sleeve of the suit, letting it go as the memory starts to leave him.

"Sebastian's dad," Kurt says. "Andrew Smythe."

Whatever sympathy Blaine had felt for Andrew Smythe turns immediately to a violent loathing.

Blaine makes the kneejerk decision that he hates Andrew Smythe, and he despises that Godforsaken suit. He moves Kurt gently and sits him down on the bed, dropping a kiss into his chestnut-brown hair. Then he turns back to the closet, tears the suit down from the hanger, and rushes with it outside, bunching it up in his hands while he walks, forcing it into a tight ball. He knows exactly what he wants to do with it. He heads straight for the trashcan, opens the lid, and throws it inside. He takes one look at it, piled in a heap over old fast food containers and other various, disgusting garbage items, and feels less than satisfied. If he had a match, he would set it on fire. He knows that Cooper would cringe if he saw what he was doing right now. The suit is vintage; it's worth a few bucks. Heck, Blaine could probably sell it himself and make a few hundred off of it, but he doesn't want that. He doesn't want anyone to have it. He wants to obliterate it from the planet and forget it ever existed.

When Blaine returns to his room, Kurt has an outfit laid out on the bed for him – a pair of chocolate brown pants and a maroon polo. Kurt goes back to the closet to retrieve a belt to match.

"I hope this is okay," Kurt says over his shoulder. He fingers a thin, maroon belt, and then pulls it down from the rack.

"It's perfect," Blaine says, watching with satisfaction as Kurt's smile slowly returns.

Kurt lays the belt across the waist of the pants and stands up straight to look at all the pieces together.

"How do you do that?" Kurt asks, his eyes still appraising the clothes on the bed.

"Do what?" Blaine asks, the urge to put his arms on Kurt's shoulders or to hold Kurt in his arms overwhelming.

"The dream," Kurt says. "That nightmare…you couldn't have possibly known any of that stuff."

Kurt looks at Blaine from the corner of his eye and Blaine shrugs.

"I don't know really," Blaine admits. "It's not something I can turn on and off. It just sort of…happens when it wants to happen. I don't put a lot of weight on it."

"Do your parents know?" Kurt sits down carefully on the bed. Blaine joins him.

"Yeah, they do," Blaine says. "My mom calls it my _uncanny way of knowing things that I shouldn't_."

"Like what things?" Kurt crosses his legs and locks his hands around his knee, giving Blaine his undivided attention.

"Like why my mom makes tuna casserole for dinner every Wednesday night."

Kurt tilts his head as he looks at Blaine, waiting for an explanation.

"My grandfather's favorite meal was tuna casserole," Blaine begins. "When my mom was a little girl, they ate it every Wednesday night, without fail. Once when my grandmother had pneumonia, my grandfather tried his hand at making it, and it came out horrible. But they were poor and they didn't have much else, so they ate it anyway." Blaine laughs a small, wistful laugh, and Kurt echoes it, like maybe he has a similar story to tell.

"Your grandfather must have been quite a card," Kurt says as his laugh fades.

"Not the way my mom tells it," Blaine says. "I wouldn't know. My grandfather died before I was born and my mom didn't talk about him much at all. Apparently there were…issues between my mom and her dad before he died." Kurt nods and Blaine takes a breath. "Anyway, one night, when I was four I guess, I asked her if grandpa would mind that she switched from cheddar cheese to American cheese in the tuna casserole."

"What did she say?" Kurt asks eagerly, leaning closer.

"She didn't say anything. She just cried." Blaine drops his eyes to Kurt's hands and sighs. "When you're a little kid, it's kind of scary when your parents cry, you know? So, I didn't tell them about any dreams I had for a long time. I didn't want to make my parents upset."

Kurt nods again.

"I know how you feel," he says, but he doesn't elaborate. "Was there anything else?"

Blaine mentally sorts through his memories, and smiles when he comes across one he doesn't mind telling Kurt.

"My dad played baseball in college and I somehow knew that my dad owned a pair of lucky socks that he wore to every game…_and_ that he never washed them."

"Oh good heavens!" Kurt exclaims, putting a hand over his chest and chuckling. "That's horrendous."

"Yeah," Blaine agrees. "Now _that_ will give you nightmares." Blaine lies back on the bed, and to his surprise, Kurt does, too.

"Were you born with it?" Kurt asks.

"I think so," Blaine replies. "I mean, I don't remember suffering from any extreme head trauma as a child. No knocks to the head, no comas, nothing like that."

Kurt makes a motion with his mouth like he's trying to bite his lower lip.

"Does it ever work in reverse?" Kurt asks, and this time his voice sounds slightly more timid. "Do you ever dream about things, and then they happen?"

Blaine laces his fingers together and rests his hands over his chest.

"Yeah," he says. "I saw my grandmother the night she passed away. I was eight. I saw her sitting at the end of my bed, saying good-bye. She told me to take care of my parents, and my brother." Blaine chews on the inside of his cheek. "Maybe that's not what you were asking."

Kurt rolls his head on the bed to face Blaine, eying his doleful expression.

"I'm sorry." Kurt reaches out his hand and lays it over Blaine's twined fingers. Blaine turns to face Kurt. He grabs Kurt's fingers between his own and holds Kurt's hand over his heart.

"I see other things, too," Blaine continues, "but I'm not sure they count."

"Hmm? Like what?"

"I've seen my high school Glee club win at show choir competitions. I'll dream about the routines, see them step-by-step in my head. I hear the songs, the precise arrangement that we need to use. Then in the dream, when we win, I feel my fingers wrap around the trophy, and I know that's exactly what we need to do. We do it and we win. But I don't know if that's a premonition or just the power of positive thinking. Why do you ask?"

Kurt blushes and turns his face away, and Blaine immediately understands why he wants to know.

Blaine's vision of the future – a future where Kurt and Blaine get to be together.

A future Blaine didn't realize that Kurt might want.

"Um…why don't I go throw together some sandwiches while you get dressed," Kurt suggests, standing up from the bed. Kurt's fingers slip smoothly from Blaine's grasp; Blaine is sad to see them go. Blaine's not ready to leave. It might be nice to spend the day at the beach house - lie down on the bed beside Kurt and waste the day talking about their lives.

He knows they can't. Not right now, at least.

Damn responsibility.

Maybe it's something that Kurt would be willing to do later on.

"Okay," Blaine relents as Kurt hurries toward the bedroom door. He turns once to smile at Blaine before he heads to the kitchen.

Blaine rushes getting dressed. He's not that anxious to get back to work on that Victorian monstrosity, but he _is_ impatient to spend the day with Kurt. Kurt is still in the kitchen making sandwiches when Blaine walks out into the living room. The television is already on, presumably to keep Sebastian company, with the wooden puppet turned a skosh on his loveseat to get a better view of the screen. Kurt has switched the channels to a station showing a baseball game. Blaine had put the old movies on for Kurt primarily. Sebastian must be more into sports.

Over the sound of the announcer and the cheering, Blaine can hear Kurt singing an upbeat tune. He can't make out the words, but it doesn't matter as long as Blaine can hear Kurt's voice.

Blaine bends down beside his makeshift bed on the living room floor and picks up his cell phone - the green alert light already blinking.

"Come on, Gary," Blaine mutters. "It's nowhere near noon yet." Blaine checks the messages as he walks out the front door to his car. There are ten messages on his phone, all from Cooper. Blaine opens the hatch to the trunk as he reads through the messages.

_To: Blaine_

_From: Cooper_

_Remember to get as many shots as you can today. I'm doing a big edit and I need lots of sweep shots and close-ups._

Blaine furrows his brow as he reads the message again. Blaine knows what he needs to accomplish for the day - same old crap, different house, different day. Why Cooper is even concerned is beyond Blaine. He skips to the next message.

_To: Blaine_

_From: Cooper_

_Remember, we have another live shoot in a couple of days. I need to know where you expect to be in the renovation by then._

That message is almost offensive to Blaine. Blaine isn't the one that takes off to Vegas for the weekend without telling anybody, nor does he frequently forget live feeds, leaving someone else to fill in the gaps while they wait for Cooper to answer his phone. When did Cooper wake up and decide to become Captain Work Ethic?

Blaine erases this message with extreme prejudice and moves on to the next one.

_To: Blaine_

_From: Cooper_

_I'm going to need the sketches on the rooms ASAP. I would like to post them to the website._

Cooper has never once asked to see the sketches before. Sure, Blaine always sends them to him, but Cooper has never outright asked for them. Besides that, Cooper isn't in the habit of checking up on Blaine. This is definitely a new development.

_To: Blaine_

_From: Cooper_

_Look, Blainers, if you're too busy being a lazy ass to answer any of my text messages, could you do me the honor of calling me then? You know…when you're not PLAYING WITH YOUR PUPPETS!_

_Wow_, Blaine thinks. He can nearly hear Cooper yelling at him through the message on the screen. _Lazy ass my…ass._

He erases this one as well.

_To: Blaine_

_From: Cooper_

_Callmecallmecallmecallmecallmecallmecallmecallmecallmecallme…_

The rest of the messages are a continuation of this last one, the words _callmecallmecallmecallme_ running from one message to the next. Blaine scoffs, erasing the remaining messages and shoving his phone into his back pocket, in no mood to talk to his older brother.

_Well, you've waited this long, Cooper. You can wait a bit longer._

Blaine looks at the contents of his full trunk. The boxes from earlier are still stuffed in there, taking up the available space. He has to unload them. It would kill his gas mileage to drive around San Diego with his tail end dragging throughout day, but mostly he doesn't want to leave them there and chance Kurt finding them. Sure, the journals might trigger more of his memories, but it might be too much too soon.

But curiosity is gnawing at Blaine's innards. He wants the chance to go over some of them between filming today. He peeks around the end of the car for any sign of Kurt, but he's completely alone. He opens the box closest to him and pulls three of the leather journals out at random. He takes a look at the spines – 1924, 1926, and 1928. He shoves them underneath a towel in the trunk and closes the box up, preparing to take it inside.

_You make me feel like I'm livin' a teenage dream, the way you turn me on…_

Blaine's phone rings unexpectedly. Having expected to see Kurt round the corner any second and discover him with the journals, Blaine jumps at the sound. He takes another peek around the car to make sure he is still alone, then he fumbles the phone out of the pocket of his pants.

"Cooper," he mumbles unhappily, looking at the information flashing across the screen, "what a surprise."

His comment is both ironic and honest. It _is_ a surprise. As odd Cooper Anderson behavior goes, being this involved in a renovation is definitely bizarre.

"What is it, Coop?" Blaine says in lieu of _hello_.

"Finally answering your phone, huh?" Cooper asks. Cooper's tone doesn't sound out of the ordinary, but that means very little under the circumstances.

"Well, you know, after seven messages, I kind of got the feeling there was something you needed to talk about."

Blaine balances the phone between his ear and his shoulder so he can lift the box out of the trunk and into his arms. He walks quickly into the beach house before he can lose his grip.

"I just wanted to know how things are going in your neck of the woods," Cooper says.

"The same way it goes with every house," Blaine grunts, straining to lower the box down to the floor and sliding it underneath the dining room table.

"Yeah, only this isn't like every other house, is it, Blainey?"

Blaine makes his way back to the car and grabs another box.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Cooper takes a breath in and lets it out slowly,

"You know what I mean," Cooper says.

"No," Blaine says, sliding the second box beside the first. "I actually have no idea…"

"Blaine," Cooper interrupts, "you gave up your commission…for puppets! What do you think you're doing? You need that money for college. For NYADA!"

Blaine stands up and puts a hand to his forehead. Here it is - the opening he had been hoping for. He can talk to his brother and get his commission back. Blaine isn't scared of losing the puppets. His brother wouldn't want them anyway. That had been an act for show. He might not even humiliate Blaine in return. He sounded so sincere in his concern.

But in the grand tradition of Andersons, Cooper doesn't know when to stop.

"I mean, you're kind of proving mom and dad right, acting stupid and immature like this."

Blaine stops breathing. He feels his ears burn with those words. How dare he? How dare Cooper, of all people, lecture Blaine on maturity? So what if this decision Blaine had made with regard to the puppets was insane? Obviously he had been right, but Cooper didn't need to know that; he didn't need to know anything about Kurt and Sebastian. But Blaine is far from being the irresponsible one. Blaine has his priorities straight. He's a straight A student, class president, head of the Glee club, a member of almost every McKinley High School club. He had organized food drives, school clean ups, pet adoptions…

Blaine Anderson is not irresponsible, and if anyone in the world should stand by his side and trust in his decisions, his family should.

"Look," Blaine growls, fighting to keep his temper, "your house will be done on time and you're going to come out ahead. After that, you won't have to deal with any of my immature crap, alright? In fact, you don't even have to deal with it now. Whether or not I get enough money to go to NYADA isn't your concern, so why don't you just go back to whatever it was that you were doing that has nothing to do with caring about me or my future?"

"Blaine, I didn't mean…"

Blaine disconnects the call and shoves the phone in his pocket, determined not to answer Cooper's calls or messages again for any reason.

Blaine continues to unload the boxes, dropping them unceremoniously onto the dining room floor and kicking them underneath the table, taking out his fury on them since his brother is not within kicking distance.

"I've got the sandwiches!" Kurt chirps when Blaine finishes kicking the final box beneath the table.

"Great!" Blaine responds, overly bright, not wanting Kurt to worry about his petty problems. There are so many new things that Blaine has to consider now that Kurt is _alive_. There is always the chance that this life of Kurt's won't last much longer, and regardless of his promises, Blaine will wake up one day and find that Kurt has moved on. On the flip side of the coin is the possibility that Kurt could be immortal. In that instance, Blaine will need to figure out what the plan will be for the rest of Kurt's life.

Kurt won't have a house to return to. He owns nothing. Maybe Blaine can open some sort of trust for Kurt that will accrue interest for the future. He'll need to find out from someone who knows about these things. These thoughts assault Blaine in a matter of seconds the minute the beautiful puppet utters the word _sandwiches_.

"Dear Lord, Blaine," Kurt says, placing a brown paper bag on the dining room table and walking over to the young man balling his fists at his sides and staring off into thin air. "You look like you've seen a ghost!" Becoming suddenly serious and looking apprehensively around, Kurt asks, "You haven't seen a ghost, have you?"

Blaine breathes in, preparing to reassure Kurt that he hasn't, but after thinking over Kurt's question – at the idea of a living puppet afraid of ghosts - he bursts out laughing instead.

"No," Blaine says, taking Kurt's hands in his, "no ghosts here."

"Thank goodness," Kurt replies, boldly wrapping his arms around Blaine and giving him a hug, "I don't think I can handle ghosts."

A stifled laugh sputters past Blaine's lips and he buries his head into Kurt's neck. Kurt laughs nervously back, closing his eyes and breathing in – or mimicking breathing in – imagining what Blaine must smell like. He might smell clean, like Ivory soap, or musky, like his dad's old cologne. Whatever the smell is, it's uniquely Blaine. That Kurt knows for sure. It's warm and spicy and sweet and sensual and all _Blaine_.

Kurt wishes he can have a sample of it.

"Thanks for the sandwiches," Blaine says.

"You're welcome," Kurt answers. "I hope you like ham and cheese."

"I do," Blaine says. "Are you okay going out in those clothes? I'm not sure I have anything else that would fit you. I'd have to look around."

"No! No…these are great," Kurt assures him. "Only…I might need some shoes."

"Shoes," Blaine sighs. "I think I might have a pair of flip-flops you can borrow for now."

Kurt nods. He's heard of flip-flops, but he hasn't worn a pair before. But he's sure that if Blaine recommends them, then they'll be fine.

"So, shall we get going?" Blaine asks, not willing to let go of Kurt yet.

"Yeah," Kurt agrees, not quite willing to let go of Blaine.

Blaine laughs, realizing Kurt's reluctance is the same as his own.

"Okay," Blaine says, hesitantly pulling away from the puppet's arms, "I think they're in the car though, so I'm going to have to carry you."

Kurt is struck speechless by Blaine's suggestion that he carry Kurt out to the car, but Blaine has the bag of sandwiches in his grasp and Kurt up in his arms before Kurt can object.

"Oh," Kurt gasps when Blaine readjusts Kurt's weight in his arms.

"Is that alright?" Blaine asks. Kurt giggles and nods his head, looping his arms around Blaine's neck.

Blaine takes great care not to knock Kurt's legs as he walks through the door, shutting the door with his foot and using one hand to lock up the house behind them.

The beach house is quiet and still again, except for the television with its game playing on the screen, and the presence of a small tabby cat going completely unnoticed as it crept in, sat beneath the loveseat, and waited patiently.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** _Warning for a few dated homophobic slurs._

Driving with Kurt in the car turns into a major distraction for Blaine as the blue-eyed puppet stares up at the sky through the open window and sighs every five seconds.

"Oh, Blaine," Kurt says, closing his eyes against the wind as the car breezes down the highway, "it's nothing like I remember it."

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" Blaine asks, sneaking a peek at the puppet pulling his head back in from the open window.

Kurt presses the button to close the window, shutting it half way. Kurt has a strange fascination with these buttons and switches that control things automatically – the door locks, the window switch, the button that adjusts the seats. It had been adorable how Kurt spent the first five minutes of their trip swaying back and forth, and moving up and down as he adjusted and re-adjusted his seat over and over again.

"Both," Kurt says after a moment of thought. "I mean, I'm all for progress, and highways and tall buildings are a part of human civilization moving forward, but I don't know…" Kurt's eyes gaze out the window towards the edge of the highway, where store after store and building after building blurs by. "There's something to be said about driving slowly down a dirt road, hearing the birds fly overhead, seeing family houses surrounded by green grass, cows grazing and a chicken coop in the front yard, white picket fences, laundry hanging from a line…" Kurt sighs again, probably his hundredth sigh in the last half hour, but the sound is peaceful and Blaine knows he'll never tire of hearing it. "I think I'm just an old-fashioned, silly romantic," Kurt concludes with a chuckle. "The world has changed so much since I last saw it. I think I'm going to spend a lot of time playing catch up."

Blaine wants to reassure Kurt that playing catch up in this new time period will be easy, but he bites down on his lip to stop the remark before it leaves his mouth. It _won't_ be easy for Kurt. Blaine knows it, and lying to Kurt won't change that. He comes up with something instead that he hopes will mean more to Kurt, will give him something more substantial to hold on to.

"However long it takes," Blaine says, "I'll be here to help you." He turns his head to look at Kurt and sees the puppet smiling at him.

"Really?" Kurt asks, his glass eyes wide, reflecting the sunlight and the blue sky overhead.

"I promise," Blaine says, returning his focus to the road.

As they turn onto Harbor Drive, Blaine's eyes shift periodically to Kurt's face, trying to gauge his reaction to returning to the house where he had been trapped for so long, but as they approach the old Victorian, Kurt settles his head back on the head rest and closes his eyes.

Blaine doesn't ask. He understands. Kurt isn't ready to see it.

Gary's U-Haul van is back, parked by the curb out front, and standing beside it are Gary and two other men Blaine assumes Gary brought with him to help. Blaine had met the first guy, Ted, a while back. He's a few years older than Blaine and studying occupational therapy down at San Diego State University. Ted met Gary years ago when Ted was on the search for a vintage porcelain doll to give to his mother for her birthday. It turned out that authenticating vintage dolls was a hidden hobby of Ted's, and the day he walked into Gary's shop, he rescued Gary from spending a fortune on dolls that turned out to be incredibly well-made counterfeits.

The other gentleman – an older man – Blaine doesn't recognize. He stands off on his own reading a hefty, leather bound book, while Gary and Ted talk over their game plan for the rest of the toys in the house. This man can't be any more different from Gary and Ted if he tried. Where the other two men wear polo shirts and jeans, this older man wears a three-piece suit. He is trim, tall, with generous flecks of silver interspersed in his stark black hair. Narrow reading glasses sit perched at nearly the very tip of his long, thin nose. His lips move as he reads silently to himself, ignoring the other two and their constant jabber.

From the looks of things, only Gary and his crew have arrived so far, which means other people will be showing up later on.

Blaine hadn't anticipated that. Usually everyone on the renovation team gets to a project house early. He doesn't want anyone bothering Kurt while he sits in the car doing whatever he intends to do.

"Okay," Blaine says, leaning over to Kurt's seat to talk to him, "I'm going to be a couple of hours, but I'll be in and out, so I'll be checking in to make sure you're alright."

Kurt doesn't open his eyes but he smiles, turning his face in the direction of Blaine's voice.

"Oh, Blaine," he says, "you _are_ a gentleman, but don't worry too much about me. I'm sure I'll be fine."

Blaine looks at Kurt's serene face. He's staring. He knows it, but he can't help it. There are many compliments he could give to Kurt that unfortunately wouldn't be compliments at all. Blaine could say that Kurt is beautiful, which he is, but that might be more of a comment on the masterful way he was made, and therefore a compliment to Andrew's workmanship. Blaine would rather cut out his tongue than compliment that monster. Blaine could say that Kurt was handsome – as he was in all of those black and white photographs Blaine saw - but that would be a compliment to the man he was.

A man who doesn't entirely exist anymore.

Whoever Kurt is, whatever he is, whatever miracle brought him to be, Blaine adores him - shamelessly so.

Of all the crazy, outlandish, off-the-wall things that could happen to Blaine, he has a thing for a puppet.

"Blaine?" Kurt whispers, his smile growing wider. "Are you actually planning on leaving, or are you going to stare at me some more?"

Blaine's cheeks go from tan to scarlet in record-winning time. He clears his throat.

"I was…I was just wondering if you were going to be okay sitting here or if you needed a book to read or something."

Blaine clamps he jaw shut when he remembers the only things he has in the car to read are the journals in the trunk.

"I'm fine," Kurt assures him, "except…"

_Uh-oh…he wants to read. Shit!_

"Except…" Blaine says nervously.

"If you can maybe find me some paper and a pencil?" Kurt asks. "I would like to sketch."

"Sketch?" Blaine blew out a mental sigh of relief.

"Yes," Kurt says. "I…I design clothes…" Kurt's words are contrite, like he's apologizing for this thing that he enjoys, and Blaine longs to ask who might have given him the idea that designing clothes was a bad thing. Kurt's mother doesn't sound like the type to discourage her son from a hobby like sewing, and Andrew, for all his faults, included a sewing machine in Kurt's room, so it couldn't have been him. But Kurt's smile returns, and Blaine refuses to ask Kurt any question that might erase it.

"Of course," Blaine says, turning and opening the car door. "I'm sure I can dig some up. Give me a moment."

"Mm-hmm," Kurt hums, content as he reaches for the button to recline the seat back, "take your time."

Blaine hops out of the car and shuts the door behind him. He hears a round of cheers and applause from Gary and Ted, who wave his way, hooting and hollering like the over-excited fools they are. Blaine smiles and waves, heading toward the trunk of his car.

"I'll open up the house in a second," Blaine calls out, knowing that Gary is drooling like a rabid dog to get his hands on the rest of those toys. Blaine admires Gary really. Here he is, living his dream – he owns his own business, makes enough to support himself and live in a desirable city like San Diego, and most importantly, he enjoys what he does.

If Blaine can achieve half of that, he'll consider himself fortunate.

Blaine knows he has a notebook somewhere in the trunk, but with all of the things he's packed and unpacked in the last few days, he doesn't know where it ended up. He rustles through the usual car junk – first aid kit, jumper cables, a bottle of Armor All. He comes across a roll of paper towels and a half used bottle of Windex that he doesn't remember ever seeing in the trunk of his car, but there it is, and it reminds him of the posters hanging in the kitchen – the ones with dust caked on so thick Blaine couldn't see through it. He pulls them out, holding them to his chest while he keeps looking. Underneath the backseat he finds his notebook, with a pencil shoved into the spiral rings. He grabs it along with the three journals, hiding them strategically between his body and the cleaning supplies. He closes the trunk and walks over to Kurt's open window.

"Here you go," Blaine says, laying the notebook in the lap of the resting puppet.

"Thank you, Blaine," Kurt says with his eyes closed. "Go. I'll be fine." He blows Blaine a kiss in the air.

Blaine feels the invisible kiss land against his cheek.

"Alright, Kurt" Blaine says, noticing how Kurt's smile grows when Blaine says his name.

Blaine stands and heads to the house, gesturing to the other men with one wide wave. All three men look at Blaine's car as they pass. Though none of them are close enough to peek inside and see Kurt stretched out in the front seat with his eyes shut, they must have caught a glimpse of him because he's the first thing Gary mentions as Blaine starts unlocking the house.

"So, you're driving around with them, Blaine?" Gary asks, sounding disturbed but amused by Blaine's choice of company. "Is this a legitimate obsession or just an attempt to fraud your way into the carpool lane?"

Blaine decides not to argue with Gary, knowing he's mainly teasing him.

"You know, Gary," Blaine says, sticking a key into the front door, "as an adult man who plays with dolls I would think that you of all people might understand."

"Wait," Ted says, "you guys aren't kidding, are you? You brought the puppet with you?"

Blaine turns and shoots Gary an accusing glance as the door swings open and Blaine leads the trio inside.

"You told him?" Blaine asks.

"I'm sorry, Blaine," Gary says, not sounding sorry at all, "it just came up."

"What in the world were you guys talking about that the subject of my puppets came up?" Blaine asks, propping the door open and pulling the drapes.

"Cheeseburgers," both men answer in unison, leaving Blaine to shake his head.

"You took one of the puppets?" the older man sneers, speaking for the first time. Gary, Ted, and Blaine turn and look at him with varying looks.

"Blaine," Gary says, stepping in before a potential argument breaks out, "this is Alex Norton. He specializes in Vaudeville culture, and he was very interested in the puppets."

"I _purchased _two of the puppets," Blaine clarifies to the man who stares him down through the thin lenses of his spectacles," from my brother who owns the house and everything in it."

"So, you purchased them without knowing what they're worth?" the man asks, his nostrils flaring with contained anger.

"I paid quite a bit for them," Blaine says in his defense, swallowing a comment about the loss of his paycheck. "I'm pretty sure my brother got what they're worth."

"Like I said," Gary interrupts, "he didn't buy any of the franchised puppets, just two handmade puppets that were trashed in the basement."

"Made by the original owner of the house, yes?" Alex asks, over-enunciating each word, unnecessarily in Blaine's opinion. "Andrew Smythe?"

Blaine bristles at the name.

"What difference does that make?" he asks.

"That makes the puppets of historical significance," Alex says, straightening, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "I would like to see these puppets." Alex stares at Blaine, waiting to be lead out to his car, Blaine assumes.

"No," Blaine says.

"No?" Alex repeats contemptuously, peering at Blaine as his glasses begin to slide their way back down his nose.

"No," Blaine says, standing firm. "You are free to see any puppet in the house, but those other two are my personal property and they're not available for you to see."

"They are the only existing representations of Andrew Smythe's attempts to make human sized puppets," Alex argues, leaning in in an attempt to intimidate him.

"Too bad," Blaine says, "you can't see them."

Alex stares down at Blaine and Blaine stares back, the air between them electric, waiting for a single spark to set it off.

"Okay, guys," Ted intercedes, hoping to diffuse the building tension, "we have a lot of work to do. If Blaine doesn't want to show off his puppets, he doesn't have to."

Alex's upper lip curls, baring his teeth, knowing he's lost, but his eyes darken nonetheless.

"Fine," he says, the word a growl between locked teeth. He stands up straight, fixes his glasses on his nose again, and walks off as if he knows where he's going.

Blaine watches him carefully, concerned with how comfortable he seems in the house.

"I apologize about that," Gary says. "He's…really passionate about his work."

"Apparently," Blaine says, thankful that Kurt is safely hiding in the car outside, and that even Sebastian is securely locked up in the beach house.

"Come on," Gary says, clapping Blaine on the back as he eyes the man heading for the hallway. "Let's get to work so I can get these glorious tin toys back to my shop."

Blaine nods, peeking out the window once to make sure Kurt can't be seen, and then heads off down the hallway himself. He holds his head high as he passes Alex on the way to the dining room, barely giving the man any room as he hustles by. The man grumbles and says something beneath his breath, but Blaine doesn't pay enough attention to pick up the comment. He heads straight for the posters hanging on the dining room walls and begins to spray the glass down with the Windex. Then he puts his books and the paper towels down on the table and watches the blue liquid cut through the years of greasy dust and grime, spreading down through the muck like fingernails scraping it off. He sprays each poster a few more times before he starts tearing paper towels from the roll and wiping the glass down. He finishes cleaning the glass completely before he steps back and takes a good look at them.

He was right in assuming they were theater posters – twenty in all, each one hung in order, showing the rise and fall of the great Andrew Smythe (a statement he says in his head with a sarcastic snarl). The poster on the far left starts with Andrew's act listed at the bottom in the tiniest type conceivable. As time progresses, Andrew's listing on the bill rises. His act becomes _'Andrew and Sons', _written in a larger typeface until bam! There he is - his face big as life, and even though his act is still titled _'Andrew and Sons'_, the picture on the poster is of him alone with a puppet sitting on his lap – Sammy, more than likely. A couple more posters have his face on them, but then a new face takes his place and his act, now listed as _'The Great Andrew Smythe'_, shrinks back down the list of names until it's barely legible.

"The demise of the Great Andrew Smythe," a nasally voice echoes through the room. "Tragic."

"Yes," Blaine says, "if you believe Andrew Smythe _was_ great."

Alex tilts his head and stares at Blaine aghast.

"He was one of the greatest performers of his time."

"Maybe," Blaine says, "but he was a crap father."

Alex jerks back, scrunching his nose as if smelling something offensive.

"How could you possibly know that?"

Blaine shrugs, crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes flicking subconsciously to the journals on the table.

"I've been doing research," he says, standing defiant to Alex's scrutiny.

"Well, did your _research_ tell you that being a good parent wasn't a pre-requisite for being an excellent performer? Nobody in particular cared _how_ he treated his children."

Alex makes this statement with such an absence of emotion that it feels like a slap in the face to Blaine.

"To be perfectly honest, I couldn't care less about Andrew Smythe or his act."

"And yet you bought two of his rarest puppets," Alex comments.

"That's my business," Blaine says, wanting a quick end to this so he can find a quiet spot to start reading the journals.

"And what about these posters?" Alex asks, pointing to the walls. "Are they to become victims of your indiscernible personal collecting habits, too?"

"No," Blaine says with a sardonic twist to his lips, "actually they're being donated to the San Diego Historical Society for their exhibit on Vaudeville." Blaine picks the journals up off the table and Alex watches him, his eyes zeroing in on the books in Blaine's hands as if he recognizes them.

"What are those?" he asks, reaching out a hand like he's planning to grab them away, put Blaine pulls them back towards his chest.

"Homework," Blaine answers sharply as he brushes past, heading down the hallway and back toward the living room. He decides to plant himself next to the living room window and wait for the other appraisers and workers to arrive. With Alex in the house, Blaine feels the need to keep an eye on Kurt. He can't see him from the window because he's lying back in his seat, but he's not taking the chance of Alex slipping out unseen and harassing him.

He leans his head against the glass and looks at the journals, trying to decide where he wants to start first. Figuring that going in order will be less confusing in the long run, he opens the journal dated 1924.

_March 5 -_

_Dear Margaret – _

_Our little nine-year-old is quite the recluse. He also has one hell of a left hook, and because of that we are no longer with the Henderson and Co. traveling show. That's alright, though. I always thought they were stealing from the till, anyhow. So what if it took their little bastard Billy getting a black eye for us to leave that roadside freak show? I know that traveling can be hard on Sebastian, but I think it's just because he misses you that he acts out this way. He needs a friend. Hopefully we can glom on to another traveling show that has kids down the line. Who knows what will come our way? I love you and miss you always._

_July 6 –_

_Dear Margaret –_

_I think I might have found the solution to the problem with our Sebastian…and his name is Kurt Hummel. We just finished a show in Columbus, and on our way through Lima we found him. Well, Sebastian found him. He's not much more than a slip of a boy, with the thickest head of brown hair you've ever seen, but he's clean and polite and has a voice like an angel. If I didn't know better, I would say that Sebby was quite taken with him. He was probably just blown away but this kid's talent like I was. But there's something different about this boy. He's special – not only his voice, but the way he behaves, as if performing isn't something he does, it's something he is. I'm hoping that his father will let the boy come with us. I introduced myself, told him my piece, but the man became suspicious as all get out. I could just let the matter be, but I really think having Kurt in our act would be a God send. Wish us luck, Margaret._

_July 30 –_

_Dear Margaret -_

_By golly, it worked. My sweet new acquisition has tamed your unruly son. The two rug-rats are thick as thieves. It's almost like having you back here with us, Maggy. He cooks, he cleans, he sings all the time. From morning to evening, he fills the house with music. I feel bad for his papa though – losing a wife and now a son, but I promised the man I'd raise his son proper. Maybe with his talent in the mix we'll finally make it to Europe like we always planned. Can't you just picture it, Maggy? Headlining in Paris?_

"Hey, Blaine," Gary calls, his arms wrapped around a box filled with carefully wrapped metal toys, "aren't you supposed to be taping us or something?"

Blaine doesn't look up from the journal. He reaches a hand into the pocket of his pants and pulls out his webcam, switches it on and points it in the general direction of Gary. Gary chuckles.

"You know, Cooper's going to be pissed," Gary says, adjusting the box in his arms and heading for the door.

"Yeah, well…" Blaine lets the comment die off as he closes the first journal and opens the second one.

_March 14 –_

_Dear Margaret - _

_Boy, that Kurt is sharp as a pin. Every day he spends with us I learn something new. Here he's been with us for almost a year and I didn't know he spoke French. Says his mom taught him when he was little. She must have been one hell of a woman, just like you, Maggy._

_August 21 -_

_Dear Margaret -_

_I was a little worried taking Kurt on that he'd be sort of…delicate. You'd understand if you saw him. But he's no nancy, I'll tell you that. Kurt and Seb got themselves into one heck of a tussle the other day – the two of them against four older boys, all of them a foot taller, and boy oh boy, did Kurt lick 'em good. Of course, I told them that I wouldn't stand by fighting, not while we're trying to make a respectable name for ourselves in the higher paying houses in town. And I disciplined them. I didn't lay a hand on Kurt. It don't feel right giving a hiding to another man's son and besides, I'm pretty sure it was Sebastian's mouth that got them into all that trouble, so he got a few extra lashings with the belt to teach him. But you would have been so proud to see that boy handle himself._

Blaine winces as he reads. He knows that Kurt, Sebastian, and Andrew lived during another era, in almost a completely different world. The twenties erupted in the middle of a turbulent time in American history, but that's no excuse for the way Andrew treated his son – or the fact that he replaced him.

Blaine switches journals to the last one – 1928. He does the math – if Sebastian was 10 in 1924, he'd be around 14 in 1928.

_February 22 –_

_Dear Margaret - _

_Those two boys are inseparable. They go everywhere together, and they're so similar, they could pass for brothers. So I call the act 'Andrew and Sons' now. It's worked out well for us so far. The burlesque houses hire us for their matinees. It's good to have a family act to offset the bawdier performances. With our name on the billboards, it keeps the Fuzz off their backs and we get a higher percentage of the pot._

Blaine skims through a few entries, stopped off and on when real life intervenes. He's interrupted first by a phone call from the storage company, rescheduling again for the following day, and then by Alex when he boldly tries to read over Blaine's shoulder. Gary swoops in and rescues Blaine by telling the dreadful man that he and Ted are ready to pack up the puppets, and they need his help with the values. Alex gives Blaine a stern glare before he hobbles off after Gary and Ted.

Blaine turns to the back of the book, trying to find an entry that he saw earlier and thought looked promising.

_October 15 –_

_Dear Margaret – _

_I wish you were here. It was the darndest thing. I went out to the shed behind the house, and saw Sebastian kissing Kurt. It wasn't brotherly or friendly. It was a real, honest-to-God kiss. I'm not surprised with Kurt. I kind of suspected that his tastes tilted that way, and that doesn't bother me. He's a smart boy, and if that makes him happy, then so be it, but not Sebastian. I'm not raising a cake-eater. But it's an easy fix. I'll whore it out of him. I know you wouldn't approve, Maggy, but there's nothing else I can do. He turns fifteen come January. I'll plan for then. In the meantime, I'll have to find a way to keep them apart._

Blaine closes the journal. He's had enough. He blinks his eyes, spots and shapes dancing in front of him as he recovers from Andrew Smythe's wretched penmanship. He looks out the window in time to see Kurt raise his seat back. From this distance, Kurt doesn't look like a puppet. With his head titled to rest against the seat back, his eyes shut, a small smile curling his mouth, he looks like a boy – a _human_ boy.

Blaine sees a van from another pawn shop pull up out front, and he runs out to meet them with his webcam switched on. After Cooper's demeaning phone call, Blaine isn't too concerned with getting all the shots he needs, so he plans on only taking enough to keep Cooper off his back. He ushers the men into the house and directs them down to the basement, taping them as they look over the large tools and equipment, deciding what they can realistically sell. It takes a while to interview these new guys since they are so focused with the job of rifling through the power tools, plugging each one in to see which ones work or not. As soon as Blaine gets the bare minimum of shots that he needs, he races back up the stairs, taking a brief shot of Alex discussing what looks like the last of the puppets with Gary and Ted, and then heads for Kurt sitting in the car.

"Hey," Blaine says, trying to sound suave while panting uncontrollably. "I came out here to make sure you weren't getting too hot or anything."

"Do you know how long it's been since I've felt the sun on my face?" Kurt sighs. "Or the wind?"

Blaine cocks his head, looking into Kurt's face.

"Do you feel it now?" he asks.

"Not really," Kurt says, the smile on his lips taking on a wry quality. "But I can remember the sun and the wind better when I'm in their presence then when I'm locked up in the dark."

Kurt's comment tugs at Blaine's heart. He feels tears prickle his eyes at the thought of this beautiful boy locked up, shattered to pieces on that cold, damp floor, and he has to look away. He glances down and sees the notebook he gave Kurt open in his lap, the pencil stuck back into the spirals, but both sheets of paper covered in drawings. He hasn't sketched clothes, but the living room and the dining room of the house, drawn the way they might have looked when Andrew bought the place – sketched from the memory of the few times Kurt got the chance to see them.

"Kurt," Blaine starts, staring down at the intricate details of the embossed wallpaper, the furniture, the tiny touches – portraits on the walls, statuettes on the mantel, even the way the tools are arranged by the fireplace, "your drawings…are they this house?"

"Sort of," Kurt says, closing the book and handing it to Blaine, still with his eyes staunchly shut, "it's a combination of the house we lived in with Sebastian's dad, and this one, the few times I saw it."

"They're…amazing…" Blaine thumbs through the pages, catching a sketch of each upstairs bedroom, the bathroom, and then of one or two outfits, each drawn to match the time period Kurt lived in.

"Thank you," Kurt says, taking the notebook back when Blaine sets it on his lap.

"So, I'm just about to wrap things up in there - probably another hour or so. Did you think about where you might want to go after all this?" Blaine asks. "The movies? Dancing? Mini-golf?"

Kurt raises one eyelid and peeks at Blaine.

"Do you think there's some place we can go and be alone?" he asks. "Somewhere we can see the sky?"

Blaine nods slowly.

"I think I know the perfect place."

* * *

"I have missed the beach so much," Kurt says, sitting cross-legged on the retaining wall, his eyes moving up and down the shoreline, watching the white caps of the tide curl into the sand.

"Me, too," Blaine agrees, his eyes following Kurt's gaze. Kurt turns his head and stares at Blaine.

"But, don't you live out here?"

"No," Blaine says with a cough, becoming shy when he thinks of the confession he should have made before. "Actually, I'm from Westerville…but I live in Lima."

Kurt gasps, throwing both hands over his mouth, his entire face aglow.

"You're kidding!"

"Nope," Blaine says. He takes out his cell phone and opens to the pictures in his gallery. "Here…" he scoots closer to Kurt so that he can see the pictures on the screen. "These are a few of my friends from high school."

"Where do you go?" Kurt asks.

"I go to McKinley."

"Hmmm…must be new," Kurt says, watching as Blaine swipes the screen and changes the photo. "This is the Auglaize River last winter. The Glee Club went skating there…"

"That's quite a handsome young man you've got your arms around," Kurt says dryly, eyes darting away from the image of a tall blond grabbing Blaine from behind. Blaine smiles at the jealousy plain in Kurt's voice.

"That's my best friend Sam. He's just a friend," Blaine explains.

"You look…close," Kurt says, noticeably unconvinced.

"We are," Blaine admits with a smile that slowly takes up his entire face.

"Quite." Kurt nods as Blaine switches the photographs, bypassing a few others with Sam in them.

He wants to tease Kurt with the knowledge that he garnered from those journals, how Andrew had hoped Kurt could settle Sebastian down, how the two boys were so fond of each other, but it seems like a cruel memory to bring up. Kurt might not remember it that way and besides, thinking about that closeness starts to plant the seed of jealousy back in Blaine's mind.

Especially that kiss.

Blaine shows Kurt a few more generic pictures – one of the farmer's market where the Secret Society of Superheroes Club held a food drive last Thanksgiving, one of the Lima Mall, another of the Lima Bean. Kurt looks at these photos like he's absorbing the images into his brain, imprinting them there.

"It looks so different now," Kurt says, sounding nostalgic. "I don't think I'd recognize it if I went back there."

"Do you _want_ to go back there?" Blaine asks, closing the gallery of photos and pocketing his phone. Kurt looks back at the ocean.

"No," Kurt answers. "There's nothing back there for me."

Kurt wraps his arms around his torso and runs his hands up his exposed arms.

"Do you want to leave?" Blaine asks, assuming Kurt has caught a chill, forgetting for a moment that Kurt can't feel the cold.

"Not yet." Kurt says. "You know, back when I…" He stops, shaking his head and dropping the sentence. "Do you think it's more fitting to say _when I was alive_? Or should I say _when I was human_? I mean, if I'm speaking of the past, what do I say? How do I address it?"

"That's a good question," Blaine says, wrapping his arms around his bent knees. "I would say that you're alive. And I like to think of you as human. Maybe you don't need to make the distinction."

Kurt looks down at his hands, turning them over front to back, examining them beneath the moonlight.

"What's going to happen to me now?" he asks, looking up at Blaine with his hands splayed in front of him. "I'm a puppet. I can't have a normal life, like you." Blaine tries to think of an answer, but Kurt isn't finished. "I know you said you would help me, but what can I do?" Kurt drops his hands helplessly back in his lap. Blaine feels just as helpless. He doesn't know exactly how Kurt feels, but Blaine is human, and still, most of the time he has no clue what he's doing.

He can't fix this, not completely, not right now. He doesn't even know where to start. So he puts an arm around Kurt's shoulder and holds him close, and together they watch the waves chase each other down the beach.

* * *

They return to the beach house late. They're not entirely covered in sand, so Blaine doesn't rush to the shower right away. He takes Kurt into his bedroom and sits him down on the bed.

"Okay," Blaine says, "I had a thought. Hang out here for a second. I'll be right back."

Kurt nods, watching Blaine disappear back out the door. Blaine crosses the living room and heads to the opposite end of the house - an area with rooms he doesn't go to except for the kitchen. Where his room and his brother's room are side by side on one end of the house, the master bedroom and his parent's library are on the other. When Blaine was younger, his mother was really into sewing. It was a hobby she had that inspired him, but that she kind of grew out of the more adult she became. He can't remember exactly when that happened, it just kind of did. He remembers her keeping a basket of sewing supplies in the bottom of their closet, along with a few old fashion magazines. On their last visit here, his father, who is tall and thin like Kurt, left some old clothes hanging in the closet. He had planned to pick them up on their next summer trip, but there never was another one. Blaine looks them over, frowning at how out-of-style they are, but they're still functional. He hopes that Kurt can do something with them. Blaine pulls the clothes off the hangers, grabs the basket of supplies and a handful of magazines, and runs back through the house to the other end, ignoring Sebastian with each pass.

"Here we go," Blaine says, sliding back into the bedroom on his sock-covered feet. He drops the load onto his bed. Kurt sees them and goes from sullen to ecstatic.

"Oh, Blaine," he says, picking through the clothes and the magazines, smiling so bright he looked like a child on Christmas morning, "did you bring all of this in here for me?"

"Yeah…well, I thought these clothes might fit you better…" he rambles, opening up the basket of sewing supplies, "and if they didn't, you could alter them, maybe? And…"

Blaine stops when Kurt kisses him on the cheek. It's chaste and unhurried, but it makes Blaine's entire body tingle.

"It's wonderful," Kurt whispers. "Thank you."

"Yeah?" Blaine asks. "Oh, I'm glad you like them." He stands and backs up toward the bathroom door while Kurt continues to sift through the items on the bed. "I'm going to take a quick rinse, and then…"

"Are you going to work on Sebastian?" Kurt asks. Kurt's expression seems genuinely hopeful, but Blaine still has trouble interpreting that tone in Kurt's voice that sounds wary.

"Do you really want me to?" Blaine asks.

Kurt pauses a second – a second in which Blaine thinks Kurt might say _no_.

"Yes," Kurt says with the same unsure tone. "Yes, I do."

* * *

Blaine's shower is basically a dip beneath cold water to get his head straight before he jumps back out and joins Kurt for what could turn out to be a long, exhaustive night of repairing Sebastian. He has only been at it for fifteen minutes, but already he wants to throw in the towel and call it a night. Sitting in a chair from the dining room that Blaine pulled up in front of the loveseat, Blaine struggles to get Sebastian's arm seated correctly. Whereas Kurt's body felt like a magnetic, drawing all his broken limbs together, Sebastian's wooden body feels like he's repelling these pieces away. Maybe Sebastian doesn't want to be put back together, Blaine muses.

Or maybe he doesn't want any help from Blaine.

If Blaine had the money to send him to a professional repair person, he would. At least it would get Sebastian out of the house for a few days. The longer he sits on the loveseat staring blankly into space, the more unnerving it feels having him around.

Blaine wrestles with the piece, but eventually he fits the arm in its socket and threads the wires through, twisting them together and tying them off. The taut wires snap halfway through. The sharp end recoils and hits Blaine on the arm, leaving a long scratch. Sebastian's arm falls back off his body and onto the loveseat.

"Dammit," Blaine screams, dropping Sebastian down on the loveseat to look at his smarting wound, sending the loose arm tumbling onto the floor.

Kurt puts down his sewing and runs over to Blaine to examine his injured arm.

"Is it bleeding?" Kurt asks, looking at Blaine's arm with concern.

"I don't think so," Blaine says, hissing through clenched teeth, "but it hurts like hell." Blaine reaches for a box of tissues on the table while Kurt bends over to retrieve Sebastian's arm.

"Blaine," Kurt says, getting down on his hands and knees and peering under the loveseat, "you didn't tell me you had a cat."

"I…I don't," Blaine says, following behind Kurt and leaning down to look over his shoulder. "Oh, is it a tabby cat?" Blaine asks, remembering the fugitive cat that scared the living daylights out of him. "Apparently he's found a way in here…"

"No," Kurt gasps, pulling a small furry body out from underneath the loveseat. Blaine takes a step back and groans low in his throat.

_Great. The cat broke in again just in time to die in my dining room._

But what Kurt has in his hands isn't the dead body of a tabby cat. It's a puppet - the _puppet_ of a tabby cat. The same tabby cat Blaine had seen in the house before. It had the same inquisitive green eyes, the same ripple pattern to the fur.

"Abigail," Kurt murmurs, gently stroking the animal's fur.

Blaine blinks down at Kurt, sliding off his chair to kneel on the floor beside him.

"Abigail?"

"Yes," Kurt says, smiling affectionately at the realistic feline puppet with the silky fur and the sparkling green eyes. "Sebastian made her. His dad was teaching us to make puppets and Abigail was Sebastian's first."

"But why would Abigail be here?" Blaine asks. "I didn't bring her here."

"Abigail was the first," Kurt murmurs, petting the animal's fur.

"The first…what?"

"The first puppet that Sebastian's dad tried the spell on," Kurt says, each word forming slowly as if the memory is coming to him in the instant that he speaks.

"A spell?"

Kurt's eyes grow astronomically wide as he starts to remember.

"Sebastian's dad bartered for a spell…from the Calhoun family. A favor for a favor. It was supposed to capture any lingering soul and put that soul into the vessel of your choice."

Blaine nods. It sounds far too fantastic to be real, but then again…

"But, why start with the cat?" Blaine asks.

"Abigail wasn't just any cat," Kurt explains, holding the animal up to his nose and staring into its eyes, trying to coax the creature to come alive for them. "She was Sebastian's cat. His best friend back before I joined their group. She was a stray, and Andrew didn't really let Sebastian keep her. She followed them around because Sebastian fed her, and they couldn't get rid of her. After she died, Sebastian said he always kind of felt her around. He swore he would see her dart out from behind corners, or he would feel her curl up next to him while he slept. She was always hiding under things and scurrying beneath toys and such, looking for mice…"

Blaine's mind conjures up the sounds of scurrying he heard in the Victorian house when he first entered into it, wondering if they might have been made by Abigail hunting around.

"When he got the spell to bring us back, he tried it out on Abigail first…"

"So, he was able to bring her back because she stayed behind? So that means that _you_ stayed behind?"

Kurt puts Abigail down beside Sebastian on the loveseat.

"I couldn't leave him," Kurt says, giving the cat puppet a last pat on the head. "He was like a father to me. And he felt so guilty…I had to make sure that he was going to be okay."

"And Sebastian?" Blaine bites his tongue. The answer is obvious, but Blaine doesn't want to let on that he harbors secret knowledge into the mind of Andrew Smythe. After what Blaine had read in those journals, he knew that Sebastian didn't stick around for his father. No way. There was only one person he would have stayed around for.

"He stayed around…for me." When Kurt turns and looks at Blaine, it's with the ghost of tears in his eyes – tears that don't exist but are still as real as any human tears, brought on by emotion that Kurt can feel but can't fully express. "That's why you have to promise me you'll put him back together," Kurt says, wrapping his arms around Blaine's torso. "You have to fix him. Please. For me."

"I will," Blaine says, running his hands up Kurt's back and holding him close. "I promised I will, and I will."

Kurt nods in Blaine's arms and holds him tighter. Blaine looks Sebastian over, holding Kurt just as tightly in his arms. He should fix Sebastian – at least give the poor guy another arm or a leg. He did promise Kurt. Sebastian's puppet is made of wood and the pieces are not as extensively damaged as Kurt's limbs were, but still, fixing Sebastian feels like the last thing he should do.

He has a feeling that if Sebastian wakes up, he has the power to take Kurt away from him…for good.

* * *

There must be rats somewhere beneath the floor. Or possums. Or maybe Abigail is up and roaming about the house, chasing dust bunnies or pouncing on her shadow. Either way, in his sleep, Blaine can hear the scrape, scrape, scrape of something scratching along the wood floor.

Or maybe it's a gnawing. He can't tell in his half-asleep state.

His mind is still swimming with dreams of Kurt: Kurt sitting on the sand at the beach, staring off into the water; Kurt dancing beneath the moonlight, arms outstretched to the sky; Kurt lying beside him where they fell asleep together on the living room floor, their fingers intertwined; of Kurt's blue eyes, his smooth skin, his pink lips.

Blaine feels something tickle his cheek, trying to lure him softly awake. He opens his eyes with a smile, expecting to see a tuft of orange fur, or maybe blue eyes staring at him from an already awake Kurt.

He hopes it's the eyes – stunning blue glass eyes.

Blaine's eyes open slowly, holding on to as much dream as he can even though he's eager to spend another day with Kurt.

He focuses through slits, and it's eyes that he sees, but this time they're not blue…they're green.

Blaine's eyes snap open, the sight propelling him awake.

Sebastian is lying out on the floor in front of him, nose pressed against his, wooden mouth split into a startling grin.

"Well, hey there, Tiger," Sebastian says. "Don't I get a kiss hello?"


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** _Warning for mention of character death that happened in the past._

"Oh, Sebastian," Kurt says, peeking up from behind Blaine's body, "do you have to be so dramatic? You could have just said hello, you know. Like normal people."

"Hello, beautiful," Sebastian says with a musical lilt to his voice, "good to see you in one piece again." Then he shifts his eyes to look at Blaine and his smile turns almost threatening. "Hello, _Blaine_," he says.

"Hello, _Sebastian_," Blaine responds in a similarly menacing tone, "nice of you to finally join the land of the living." Blaine reaches back a hand to touch Kurt, wrapping his fingers around Kurt's wrist protectively. Sebastian watches Blaine as he reaches for Kurt, his green eyes shadowed by his open disregard for the human in front of him.

"Oh, I've always been here," Sebastian explains, winking at Blaine, the movement accompanied by an off-putting clacking sound as wood touches wood. "Hiding out, watching you two…" His eyes shift to Kurt again. Blaine turns his head to see Kurt's eyes drop down and away.

"So, why didn't you just talk to us then?" Blaine asks, not thrilled at this effect Sebastian seems to have on Kurt – how Kurt suddenly looks like he wants to hide.

"I was waiting for the right time," Sebastian says, amused at the mounting tension that has started to build in the room at his presence. "I'm an actor at heart. I wanted to make an entrance."

Blaine doesn't look at Kurt, but sits up higher to shield him from view. Sebastian rolls his head on his neck 180 degrees to look up at him, the joint creaking as the wood and wires slide together. Blaine fights to hide his grimace of disgust at the appearance of Sebastian's contorted neck. Sebastian stares at Blaine, his mocking smile turning into a sneer.

"Well, don't I get an emotional welcome back?" he asks, mostly jeering at Blaine but with a thread of genuine hurt meant for Kurt to hear. "I heard you sing and talk incessantly to our little Kurt back there. What do I get?" Sebastian's teasing tone returns. "Aren't you happy to see me, Blaine? Did you dream about me? I've been traumatized, too, you know."

Blaine's eyes narrow at the wooden puppet whose smile, Blaine suspects, was painted purposefully to always look like a smirk – untrustworthy and insincere. Blaine doesn't want that to color his perspective. Sebastian _has_ been traumatized, probably more so than Kurt, but it's hard to sympathize with someone who openly seems to despise you for no reason. Regardless of that fact, Blaine expected something…different.

But Kurt's reaction is one that Blaine simply does not understand. He wanted Sebastian put back together, but now he doesn't want anything to do with him. It could have been only out of a sense of obligation that Kurt wanted Sebastian fixed, but Blaine always felt there was something else unspoken.

If Kurt doesn't regret this decision, Blaine sure as heck is starting to.

Sebastian's head turns back around to normal and he frowns.

"Well, could I at least get my other arm and my legs?" he asks, raising the one arm Blaine had managed to attach before he fell asleep and waving his hand in front of Blaine's face. "It would be nice to be able to walk upright. Or do you only grant that privilege to pretty puppets you want to fuck?"

"Sebastian!" Kurt's voice pipes up as he crawls forward from behind Blaine's body. "Watch your tongue!"

Sebastian smiles when he sees Kurt – not the mocking sneer that he gives Blaine, but a true smile. It almost makes Sebastian look human, the way Kurt's smile makes _him_ look human.

"There's my Kurt," Sebastian says. "I wondered where you went."

"I'm not your Kurt," Kurt says quietly but firmly.

Blaine can't help it when he yawns, but he's exhausted. He looks down at his cell phone on the floor and sighs, rubbing his eyes to make the numbers on the screen come into focus.

It's barely two in the morning. They'd only been asleep for about four hours.

God, it felt so much later.

"Okay," Blaine says, putting his hands up, "I think that we got off to a bad start here." He looks at Sebastian, fixing the puppet with a smile he hopes conveys something close to an apology, even though he doesn't feel it. "Why don't I go ahead and give you your arms and legs, and then I can set us up in our own rooms. I don't know about you guys, but I seriously need to sleep in a bed. My joints are killing me."

Both puppets shoot him incredulous looks and he chuckles.

"Right," Blaine says. "Sorry."

Blaine looks at Kurt, who looks back at him with worried eyes. Blaine smiles, cupping Kurt's cheek with his hand. He hears the sound of wood grinding against wood. He looks down to see Sebastian rolling his eyes and shaking his head.

"This is really sweet and all," he says, drumming his fingertips against the floor, "but I'd really like my legs back now."

Blaine drops his hand from Kurt's cheek, his fingertips tracing light lines down porcelain skin as Kurt cranes his neck to follow them. Blaine stands, stretching stiff muscles until he's upright. Then he bends over to pick up Sebastian. He hoists the one-armed puppet into his arm and cradles him carefully.

Sebastian looks up at him and bats his eyelids.

"Now, isn't this cozy?" Sebastian coos.

Blaine walks Sebastian over to the loveseat and promptly drops him onto the cushions.

"Hey!" the puppet screams, struggling with one arm to sit upright. "I may not be made of porcelain, but I'm still breakable, you know."

"Sorry," Blaine says, not caring about his clipped tone since Kurt had retreated to the kitchen and was well out of earshot, "I slipped."

Sebastian watches Blaine gather his other arm and the wire, and start fitting it onto his body.

"You know," Blaine grunts, fighting more than before to get the arm in place, "this is _your_ arm. You could help me out a little."

"Now, why would I do that," Sebastian says in a venomous tone, "when you're trying so hard to steal the only thing in the world I've ever wanted?"

Blaine's eyes snap up to take in Sebastian's dark expression.

"Wha-" he utters just as Kurt walks in, a glass of Coke in his hand. He walks up to the dining room table, his smile starting long before then. Blaine sees Sebastian's smile turn again to one of longing, dreamlike, until Kurt walks straight up to Blaine with scarcely a glance at the wooden puppet.

"Here," Kurt says, handing the glass to Blaine. "I thought this might help keep you awake."

"Thanks," Blaine says, taking the glass and sipping the drink before setting it down on the table behind him, not missing the way Kurt licks his lips lightly when he put the cup to his mouth. Kurt hops a little and then turns away to the sofa to take up his sewing again, looking up at Blaine one more time, his smile widening when he sees Blaine staring back at him. Blaine's eyes trail back to Sebastian, scowling between them, but he holds his tongue until Blaine is bent back over his shoulder.

"You know," Sebastian whispers, "I don't know what you think is going on between you and Kurt, but it's all in your head."

Blaine scoffs, keeping his own fears about the state of their _relationship_ locked safely away so that Sebastian can't even guess what they are.

"Not that it's any of your business," Blaine says, "but it's none of your business."

"Smooth, tiger," Sebastian says. "But in all seriousness, you and Kurt are never going to happen."

"And why do you think that?" Blaine asks, keeping his voice low and even, peeking behind him to make sure Kurt hasn't caught on to their discussion.

"Because it's absurd," Sebastian laughs. Blaine pulls the wires in his shoulder joint tight and moves on to his left leg. Sebastian keeps his eyes glued to Blaine's face, watching for a reaction. "You and him. You're human, he's a puppet. What kind of…_relationship_ can you two have?"

Blaine looks up at Sebastian's pause and sees him wiggle his eyebrows.

Blaine shakes his head. He lays the puppet back on the loveseat, cringing internally at how intimate it feels.

"You know, worthwhile relationships aren't all about sex," Blaine argues.

"Yeah, well, they are a _little_," Sebastian comments.

"And what would the two of you do together?" Blaine asks, pulling the wires tighter than necessary, wishing on some level that it would hurt. "You don't have anything to work with." Blaine knocks on Sebastian's wooden crotch for good measure, smirking when Sebastian jolts up, propping himself up on his elbows, looking like he might try to take a swing at him.

"Is everything alright over there, guys?" Kurt asks from his seat on the sofa. Blaine and Sebastian turn to look at him, his needle poised mid-stitch, his glass eyes switching back and forth between them.

"We're all good here," Blaine reassures him. "What do you say, Sebastian? Are we all good here?"

Blaine's smile at Sebastian borders on devious, and the wooden puppet looks taken back.

"Yeah," Sebastian says. "We're fine, Kurt. Just, getting my legs fixed. Everything's kosher."

"Good," Kurt says, returning to his sewing, humming to himself.

Blaine and Sebastian's eyes meet again, their plastered smiles dropping immediately.

Blaine tugs the wires in Sebastian's left leg and ties them off.

"Why don't the two of us play nice?" Blaine suggests. "For Kurt's sake."

Sebastian's wooden face becomes a slideshow of mixed emotions, but he settles on the plastic façade that passes for polite. It doesn't fool Blaine in the slightest.

"Sure, tiger," Sebastian says. "Whatever you want. I'll play nice."

Blaine nods, turning back to the table for Sebastian's right leg, stopping to take a long drink from his cup of soda. Sebastian watches, narrowing his eyelids, shooting scores of daggers Blaine's way.

"I'll play nice," Sebastian mutters, "for now."

Blaine fixes Sebastian's leg in silence with the painted wood eyes of the puppet bouncing between glaring at him and watching Kurt sew. At one point, Abigail leaps onto the loveseat, overjoyed at seeing her owner, and Sebastian actually laughs when he sees her.

"Abby," he says, stroking her back with great care. She climbs up onto his chest and rubs her face against her cheek. "You're such a clever girl," he mutters, "such a smart little girl," and the cat purrs so loudly that Blaine can feel it vibrate Sebastian's wooden body.

"That should do it," Blaine says around his third yawn, tying off the wires that secure Sebastian's right leg to his hip joint. "Now just a dab of this pottery glue…"

"Pottery glue?" Sebastian laughs. Abigail jumps off Sebastian's chest and onto the loveseat as he pulls himself up to a sitting position. "Do I look like pottery to you?"

"No," Blaine says, gritting his teeth. "But it worked miracles on Kurt's cracks and chips. Maybe it'll do the same for you." Blaine uncaps the tube and watches Sebastian roll his eyes. Blaine bites his tongue hard to keep from saying something in front of Kurt he might regret. "Unless you want to stay splintered and brittle," he says. "It's your choice."

Blaine puts the cap back on the tube, but a hard hand on his arm stops him. Sebastian holds his arms out straight, waiting. Blaine relents and applies the glue – not quite as precisely as he had with Kurt, but it is going on four in the morning and Blaine has had about as much of Sebastian's snark as he can handle for one day.

And the sun has yet to rise.

"Alright." Blaine caps the tube and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. "That's it. I'm done. I've got to go to bed."

Kurt giggles from his seat on the couch, slipping his needle into the fabric of the pants he's been hemming and setting them down on the cushion beside him. He stands and walks up to the loveseat beside the dining room table.

"He looks pretty good," Kurt says, looking Sebastian over, taking his wrists and lifting up his arms to examine his shoulder joints. Blaine watches Sebastian's green eyes follow Kurt's every move with a peculiar sort of admiration. Kurt turns his attention to Blaine, and that admiration snuffs out. "You do incredible work."

"It's nothing, really," Blaine says, fighting his unease at the new sardonic interloper.

"You're damn right it's nothing," Sebastian grouses, pulling his wrists from Kurt's grasp and folding his arms across his chest. "If that's all it took, I could have gotten a first grader to do it for me."

Blaine hears Kurt sigh beside him. Sebastian turns his head toward the sound but Kurt is staring at his feet. Sebastian was an overbearing enough presence when he was motionless and silent, but now it's worse. He's vile and insulting, with a bizarre affection hiding beneath his cynical exterior that he's fighting hard not to show. But there's also a connection between him and Kurt. Blaine can feel it like a current spiraling around them. They have a history, a past.

Blaine wanted to be Kurt's future.

"Can't you just say thank you?" Kurt asks, pleading quietly, embarrassed by Sebastian's reaction.

"That's not necessary," Blaine says quickly.

"No," Sebastian says, not willing to let Blaine sweep in and get the upper hand by being humble. "Thank you, Blaine, for putting me back together. I'm in your debt."

It takes a lot for Blaine to keep from rolling his eyes.

"I'll remember that," he says as pointedly as he can.

Sebastian does not look pleased.

"Well, let's head off to bed," Blaine suggests, gesturing with his head in the direction of his and his brother's bedroom. Kurt grabs his pants off the couch and both he and Blaine give Sebastian a wide berth as he takes a few tentative steps forward, holding out his arms for balance. Blaine stands nearby, ready to help in case he falls, but Sebastian shoots him a look and Blaine throws up his hands.

"Come on," Blaine says to Kurt, putting a hand to the small of Kurt's back and leading him on ahead of Sebastian, willing to let Sebastian fall and spend the night sprawled out on the living room floor if he's going to act like a brat.

Being made of wood and not porcelain, Sebastian gets his footing quicker than Kurt had, and follows the couple to a set of doors standing side-by-side on the far end of the house.

"This," Blaine says, opening the door to his brother's room a crack, "is my brother Cooper's room. He has a king-sized bed."

Kurt's eyes brighten, his cheeks reddening at the thought of occupying the room right next to Blaine's. Blaine doesn't seem to notice, but Sebastian does.

"Thanks, Blaine," Sebastian says, breaking the silence. He smirks at the way Kurt's eyes drop. "It'll be nice being so close to your room, Blaine. You know, just in case I get nightmares in the middle of the night." Sebastian sniffs dramatically, putting a hand to his chest. "If you don't mind, that is, Kurt."

"No," Kurt says, looking back up at him and smiling a little forced. "Of course, Sebastian. If that's what you want. I wouldn't want you to be uncomfortable."

Blaine watches the exchange with interest. Blaine doesn't like to judge books by their covers, so to speak, but Blaine has had enough experience with bullies to figure Sebastian out. He can blame that on Andrew all he wants, but the truth is that Sebastian doesn't need to _be_ a bully because he _was_ bullied. But Kurt is letting himself be bullied, and Blaine isn't sure exactly why. Kurt thinks he owes Sebastian, that's pretty clear, but there has to be something more to this than that. There has to be.

"That's right," Blaine says, putting an arm around Kurt's waist and pulling him towards his room. "My brother's got some old clothes hanging in the closet I think might fit you, but other than that, if you need anything at all, just go ahead and knock. We'll help you out."

"We?" Kurt asks, staring dumbfounded into Blaine's hazel eyes.

"Yeah," Blaine says. "I've got a bunk bed in my room. I thought you could have the top bunk."

Kurt still stares at Blaine silently, his eyes brightening.

"I'm kind of used to having you around," Blaine says with a shy smile. "I don't think I could sleep without you. Would you like to join me?"

Kurt's mouth drops open, but Sebastian's mouth snaps shut.

"Yes," Kurt says. "Yes, I think I would like that."

"Great," Blaine says. He turns the knob to his door and lets the door swing open. He bows at the waist, gesturing inside the room, and Kurt walks in with a laugh on his lips, hugging his sewing tight. Blaine walks in after him and shuts the door, ignoring the puppet in the hallway, seething at his back.

* * *

Blaine and Kurt approach the bed awkwardly. Blaine stops at the frame, but Kurt continues on to the other side, depositing his sewing on Blaine's desk as he walks around the foot of the bed and stops opposite him.

"So, you can take the top bunk," Blaine offers, reaching up and patting the mattress, focusing on the plain white sheet that covers the bed as he speaks, "or…"

"Or…" Kurt asks, craning his neck to get a better look at Blaine's face.

"Or, you could sleep on the bottom bunk…with me?" Blaine asks, biting his lip. His eyes sweep the room and land on Kurt's face. "I just thought…" Blaine continues nervously, "like last night…"

"I think that would be nice," Kurt says, climbing on the bed and slipping beneath the covers.

"Good," Blaine says, nodding, turning off his lamp and slipping beneath the blankets on his side. Blaine stares up at the ceiling, his feet fidgeting beneath the sheets, suppressing the urge to giggle like a giddy doofus every time he feels Kurt move, knowing that he's lying beside him.

But as happy as he is – and at this moment, he's happier than he's been in a long time – the thought of Kurt kowtowing to Sebastian kills him. He has to know.

"Kurt," he says, his fingers tracing patterns into the sheet.

"Yes, Blaine," Kurt says in that reverent whisper reserved for church and sleep.

"Can you explain to me this thing between you and Sebastian?" Blaine asks too quickly, afraid that if he doesn't get the words out all in one breath he won't ask at all.

Kurt reaches across the bed beneath the blanket and finds Blaine's hand. He slips his hand into Blaine's.

"Can I…can I explain it to you another time?" Kurt asks timidly. Blaine turns his head to look at Kurt, his glass eyes staring up at the ceiling. He looks so melancholy all of a sudden that Blaine doesn't have the heart to press him to talk.

"Of course," Blaine says. "Tell me when you're ready."

Their fingers lace together, and at the touch of Kurt's palm against his, Blaine falls asleep.

* * *

It feels like being dropped off a rollercoaster onto the ground, or skydiving without a parachute when Blaine finds himself locked into a memory or a dream that's not his own. That's where he is now, sprawled on his back in the soft earth, staring up at a sky full of silver points of light. He's not sure exactly where he is or why he's there, but he's beside a shed behind a house – a Victorian house, like the one he's renovating but without the cartoonish paint job. The lights are on upstairs and he hears the low hum of voices, like people having an argument. He hears a clash of wood against wood, and then a bottle shatter. He bolts to his feet, staring up at the lit window shrouded by sheer curtains, diffusing the golden light from within. Two silhouettes come into view – two men, one steadfastly trying to hold the other upright while the other sways back and forth, nearly falling straight to the floor. Cast only in dark shadows against the curtains, they look so familiar that Blaine knows whatever purpose he has here, that's where he needs to be.

It's almost instantaneous how he ends up in the room. He doesn't really practice the skill, it just seems to be a part of who he is. He knows he needs to be there, he wants to be there, and he's there.

He's in a bedroom and for a moment he's confused. It looks exactly like Kurt's bedroom in the Victorian house he's renovating, but he knows he's not there. All the same, there are similar theater posters on the walls, a Singer sewing machine in the corner, a dress form beside that and on it a half-finished suit…a suit that resembles the one Blaine had thrown in the trash, the one that Kurt didn't want to wear. Andrew had made Kurt's room in that San Diego house a replica of the room he lived in back in the 20s, down to the mahogany furniture.

Andrew had remembered all these details and recreated them for when he brought Kurt back.

Blaine looks up when he hears the springs on the mattress whine and sees Sebastian lying back on the bed with Kurt sprawled over him. He's holding onto Kurt's upper arms, wrinkling the shirt that Kurt's wearing, as Kurt struggles to be free of him. Blaine wants to rush forward, wants to pull Kurt off of him, but he stops. He can't do a thing. This isn't his memory, and whatever this is, it's already happened. Blaine watches, but Kurt doesn't seemed too concerned with the antics of his obviously drunken friend, extricating himself easily from Sebastian's grasp.

"You know, you have to stop doing this to yourself," Kurt says. "You're going to drink yourself to death one of these days."

"Wh-what the fuck do I care?" Sebastian slurs. "It'd be better than playing second fiddle to a God fucking puppet for the rest of my…for the rest of my life!"

Blaine watches Kurt try to sit Sebastian up, but the moment Kurt lets go of him, he falls back on the bed. Kurt clicks his tongue in disgust and shakes his head. He walks over to his dresser, close to where Blaine is standing. Kurt is dressed in a pair of tailored black slacks with a white dress shirt tucked in, and a black pin-striped vest over that. He looks beautiful – his skin soft, his pink lips so tempting, his blue eyes icy and unamused. There's a basin on the dresser and he pours some water into it from a pitcher right beside. He places a cloth gently in the basin, giving it a moment to sop up the water. Then he wrings it out and carries it back to the bed, placing it on Sebastian's forehead.

"Nothing says you're going to be playing second fiddle to Sammy," Kurt reassures him, patting the cloth down. "You're a smart boy, Sebastian. You have your whole life ahead of you."

"Yup," Sebastian says, groaning at the sound of his own voice in his ears. "Do you know I applied for early admission to five different colleges, and I haven't heard back from a single one? Not even a _no, thank you, we hate you, fuck off_?" He shakes his head, wincing at the mistake of moving. "Oh, I'm a smart boy, alright. A smart boy who's going to be playing with puppets for the rest of my life." He moans in the back of his throat. "It doesn't matter. He hates me anyway."

"He doesn't _hate_ you," Kurt says. "I think he just wants you to take the act more seriously."

"But I can't take it seriously, Kurt," Sebastian gripes. "It's his life, not mine."

"You know, Sebastian…" Kurt lays out beside him on the bed and stares up at the ceiling, "I know you don't think you have a say in your own life, but you do. You really do."

"That's easy for you to say," Sebastian says, turning on his side and draping an arm across Kurt's waist, "you're not saddled by the ghost of Vaudeville past hovering over your head."

"Meaning?" Kurt asks, running his hand over the arm across is waist with long, soothing strokes.

"Meaning, my father isn't your father. You can leave anytime you want. You can go wherever you want. You're not tied down to this horse and pony show."

Kurt sighs.

"I don't intend to stay here forever," Kurt says. "In a few more years, I'll have enough money saved that I…"

Kurt lets the sentence drop. Sebastian looks up at him with unfocused eyes that can't seem to decide which image of Kurt they should be looking at.

"Saved up for what?" Sebastian asks.

"Well," Kurt starts after a hard swallow, "to move to New York. To try and make it big on the stage."

Sebastian gasps – a sound Kurt misinterprets for mocking – and Kurt snaps his head to look at him.

"I can do it, you know," Kurt says defensively. "There are new musicals opening all the time. My friend from Lima – Rachel – she moved there with her intended last year and she's been in the chorus of three musicals already. Or I could go to Hollywood. Maybe try to be in a motion picture."

"Traitor," Sebastian mutters, but not vindictively.

"Yeah," Kurt says with a smile, "you're probably right. But my point is, we don't have to do this forever."

"Really?" Sebastian asks, inching his face closer to Kurt's, his eyes flicking over Kurt's lips in that same way Blaine had done so many times before. "And what do you think I should do?"

"Start over," Kurt suggests with a warm smile. "Make a life that's all your own. One that you can be proud of."

"A-ha," Sebastian scoffs, "and how do you recommend I do that?"

"Well, you can start by telling your dad how you feel," Kurt says, moving an inch back when he notices how close Sebastian has come to his face. Sebastian slumps back when he sees Kurt moving away. His expression changes to that mask of condescension that he wears so easily.

"You're such a simpleton, Hummel," Sebastian spits into Kurt's face. "Such a Goddamned simpleton." He swings his feet off the edge of the bed, pushing himself upright, letting the wet cloth on his forehead fall to the floor. He swings back and forth unsteadily, grabbing onto the bedpost for balance. "Such a simpleton," he repeats, "and that's why you're never going to be famous."

Sebastian's drunken muttering is stopped by a crash of broken bottles and mumbled cursing from downstairs.

Kurt stands up and stares Sebastian square in the face.

"Maybe I am a simpleton," Kurt says, "but I'm a simpleton who's going to get out of here and never look back. Unless you want to die here, then here's your chance."

Sebastian stares down at Kurt, thinking of some vicious remark, some comment so crippling that it will finally cut Kurt down for good, but then he turns his head to look out the window with a forlorn expression on his face.

"I'll pass."

Kurt glares at Sebastian, as if personally and deeply disappointed by his refusal.

"Coward," he says, blowing by him with a force that shoves Sebastian back down onto the bed. Kurt breezes straight through Blaine's body and heads down the stairs. Blaine waits for a moment before he follows, watching as Sebastian curls in on himself on top of Kurt's bed. He grabs one of Kurt's pillows and pulls it against his chest, burying his head into it and breathing in deep. Then, in the new silence, Sebastian begins to cry.

Blaine backs out of the room, his eyes holding on to the image of a broken Sebastian. He stares at what he can see of the man's face as he sobs into the pillow, and it spears Blaine straight to his soul.

He knows how Sebastian feels.

The room, with its lantern still lit, begins to darken in his mind, and he knows he's no longer supposed to be here. He turns and makes his way down the stairs, to the scene already in progress, of Kurt helping another drunk man off the floor, rolling his eyes as if to say, "Great. Another idiot."

"It's over," the older man slurs, sounding remarkably like his son upstairs. "Done. All done. The last nail has been hammered into the coffin. Our lives are over."

Kurt rolls his eyes again as he sets the man on his feet.

"What is it?" Kurt asks, taking a step back. "What's done?" Andrew tries to walk. He barely takes a step before he falls forward. Kurt rushes to intercept the man before he skids and lands on his face.

"Vaudeville," Andrew says. "Vaudeville's dead."

"What!?" Kurt exclaims. "It can't be!"

"Well, it is, son," Andrew says, leaning on Kurt as he makes his way to his chair. "It's all these new-fangled talkies. They did it. They killed us, boy."

Blaine sees a cloud of guilt cross Kurt's face over his thoughts of wanting to break into the movies, but it passes and Kurt kneels at Andrew's feet.

"What are you going to do now?" Kurt asks. If Andrew notices that Kurt says _you_ instead of _we_, he doesn't show it.

"I don't know, my boy," Andrew says, putting a hand on Kurt's and patting it gently. "I just don't know."

Kurt bites his lip and looks down at the floor, around the small room and into the fireplace, watching the flames he lit and tended dance over the logs they're consuming.

"You know," he starts out, and Blaine gets a distinct feeling of déjà vu. This is just how the conversation upstairs with Sebastian started out, and Blaine is beginning to see the picture of a young boy who tried so hard to keep this disjointed family together, "I hear that some of those motion picture studios are filming Vaudeville acts…" Kurt stops, watching, gauging Andrew's reaction to his suggestion. The man doesn't seem to be listening, and for a second, Blaine thinks he might have fallen asleep. But then his head pops up and he stares down at Kurt with an incredulous, angry look on his face.

"If you're suggesting what I think you're suggesting, that's blasphemy!" he yells, sweeping an arm and knocking over an end table, sending books and papers sliding all over the floor. "How can we do that when they've destroyed our livelihood?"

Blaine catches sight of one black book – a journal. The book spins as it travels underneath the chair, and Blaine sees the first three numbers: _193_-.

"Well, if this is the way things are headed," Kurt says carefully, "maybe we should go with the flow."

Andrew shakes his head, covering his eyes with his hand.

"Mr. Smythe, these movies that they're making…they're going to be around for years," Kurt explains. "You will be remembered long after we're all gone. People will be watching your act for generations to come."

Andrew sighs, but he doesn't speak, and even with his eyes shut Blaine can see them move as he considers Kurt's words.

"No, no. It wouldn't work." Andrew raises watery green eyes to stare into Kurt's. "I can't do anything else. I've lived on greasepaint and sawdust my entire life. It's all I know. I'm a creature of habit, Kurt, and this dog's too old to learn any new tricks."

Kurt nods, clenching his jaw tight.

When he opens his mouth to speak again, Blaine is sure it's to tell Andrew that he's leaving.

"Why don't I go make us some tea?" Kurt slips his hand from beneath Andrew's and stands.

"Alright," Andrew answers softly. He waits until Kurt is in the kitchen before he looks up and follows him with his eyes.

Blaine wants to join Kurt in the kitchen, but he has a strong feeling that there's something here that he needs to see. Andrew gets up from his chair and starts cleaning up the overturned table. There are papers all over the floor – pictures and letters. Blaine comes up behind the man and watches him sort through them. Andrew picks through the letters first and Blaine reads the first few lines of each one –foreclosure notices from the bank, repo letters for everything from his car to their furniture, a hock slip for his wedding ring. Andrew was so far in debt there seemed to be no way for him to dig himself out.

After those, there were letters written to Andrew from Kurt's dad asking, "How has my son been?...When will I hear from you?...Here is the money you requested...Please let me know when my son gets over his illness…I'm sorry the doctor's bills are so high but I'll send you anything I can."

Blaine feels his skin crawl as he reads Kurt's father's pleas over and over.

Andrew Smythe, the detestable asshole he was, had been scamming Kurt's dad for money.

Blaine's hands clench at his sides, his eyes burning with hate. Just when Blaine's loathing of Andrew couldn't get any stronger, couldn't run any deeper, the final letter shatters every ideal Kurt has built up in him that Andrew might be any shred of a decent human being.

It's a letter from Stanford University.

_Dear Andrew Smythe:_

_Congratulations! We would like to extend an offer of early admission to your son, Sebastian Smythe, to our university for the upcoming spring semester…_

Andrew gathers all the letters together and wrings them in his hands, throttling them and then tossing them into the fireplace.

"You bastard!" Blaine breathes, his hands shaking he looks down at the hunched over man. "You evil…"

The sound of a kettle whistling splits the air. Andrew pops his head up and looks toward the kitchen to see if Kurt is coming with his tea. When Kurt doesn't appear, Andrew picks up a poker and stabs at the mash of burnt ashes, pushing them deeper into the flames, upsetting the logs so that the top one teeters in its attempt to hide the evidence. Both Andrew and Blaine turn their heads at the sound of footsteps, but they bypass the living room and head for the stairs, fading up the staircase.

Blaine figures Kurt probably brought a cup of tea up to Sebastian first to make sure he was okay.

Andrew has the same idea. He gathers up the photographs next. He looks through them quickly, photo after photo of Sebastian and Kurt from years past – playing ball in the yard, performing on stage, swimming in a pond, walking down the street hand-in-hand. He reaches beneath the chair and grabs his journal. He pulls it out and opens the book to the middle, sticking the photos in the spine and placing the book back on the table by the fire.

"_My_ family," he says, sitting back in his chair and sighing. "No one is going to split up my family. Not even you, Sebastian. You're not leaving and taking my Kurt with you. I won't let you."

Blaine hears a soft thud from above them. Andrew's eyes shut, entirely unconcerned about the goings on above his head.

Blaine can't look at him. He can't look at the man who is so intent on living his own dreams that he's willing to destroy the dreams of his son and the boy he's sworn to take care of, and can still sleep so soundly. Blaine heads back up the staircase to Kurt's room. He hears another thud and peeks his head in to see Kurt pulling off Sebastian's socks after having taken off his shoes. After the socks, he moves up to Sebastian's neck, loosening his tie.

Sebastian's eyes open, his hands lifting to hold onto Kurt's wrists. Kurt ignores him and continues with the necktie.

"Run away with me," Sebastian whispers. "We'll go to Hollywood, or New York, or anywhere you want. Let's just…let's just be together…"

With eyes fixed on Kurt's face, he rolls his head slightly and places a kiss on Kurt's hand. Kurt sighs, stopping with the ends of Sebastian's tie in his hands.

"I love you, Sebastian," Kurt says. "I do…but not the way you love me. I'm sorry."

Sebastian's eyelids close and his head falls to the side, a single tear slipping down his cheek.

"Oh, Seb," Kurt whispers, lying down beside the boy on the bed, the tea forgotten. He presses his forehead to Sebastian's and closes his eyes. "What am I supposed to do with you?"

Blaine watches a tear roll down Kurt's cheek, a match to Sebastian's, which has already dried into his skin.

Blaine begins to see. This is where Kurt's guilt comes from. This is why he's so obligated to Sebastian.

Sebastian loved Kurt. Kurt didn't love him back.

Blaine doesn't know how long he spends staring at the two before he smells the smoke rising up the staircase. He runs to the doorway and sees it billow, rising higher and higher. He hears a sniffle as the smell registers for Kurt, too, and he sits up in bed. He climbs over the edge and heads for the doorway with Blaine close behind.

"Mr. Smythe?" Kurt calls down, coughing as the smoke finally hits him. "Mr.…Mr. Smythe?" Kurt covers his nose and mouth with his arm and makes his way down the stairs.

The living room is almost entirely engulfed in flames.

"Mr. Smythe!" Kurt yells, eying the man passed out in his chair. A single lit log sits on the floor not too far from his feet, the fire spreading quickly as it eats its way over the hardwood floor.

"Sebastian!" Kurt yells out as he rushes into the living room, hopping around patches of fire. "Sebastian, wake up!"

Kurt gathers Andrew up under his arm and lifts him to his feet, dragging him through the living room and out the front door as if the old man weighs nothing.

Blaine doesn't consciously follow them but in the blink of an eye he's outside. Kurt lays Andrew down on the ground and the old man immediately coughs up a mouthful of spit and soot, drawing in strained, shuddering breaths.

Kurt looks around them in the dark, desperate for any sign of Sebastian.

"Mr. Smythe," Kurt says, shaking the older man lightly. "Mr. Smythe, I don't see Sebastian." Kurt looks back at the house as the old Victorian surrenders to the fire. "You stay here. I'm going to go get him."

Kurt stands but Andrew reaches out a hand and grabs him. Kurt looks into the man's soot-stained face as he shakes his head.

"Leave…leave him," he says, his raspy voice competing with the fire to be heard.

"What?" Kurt's eyes go wide. "No! We can't leave him! He's your son!"

Kurt makes to leave, but Andrew holds on tighter.

"No," Andrew says. "You're my son now Kurt. You always have been."

Kurt looks at Andrew, stunned by the man's insanity.

"No, I'm not," Kurt says sternly.

"You've been a far better son than that wretch," Andrew insists. "Let him go, Kurt. Let him go the way his mother did, and then maybe they can be together…and Sebastian will be happy."

Kurt tears his arm from Andrew's grasp and runs back into the house with the old man's cries of, "Leave him, Kurt!" echoing behind him.

Blaine races after him to follow him into the house. He can feel the heat from the fire assault his skin – the intense, awesome heat. The flames blind him. Everything in the house is waves of black without definition or color. He hears a scream – Kurt's voice calling out Sebastian's name through coughs and cries and pleads of _Please, get up! I can't carry you!_

"I'm coming!" Blaine cries out into the fire even as the flames keep him backed into the doorway. "Kurt! I'm coming! Just…hold on!"

He hears a crack, like the break in a massive tree during a harsh storm. It's loud enough to make his ears ring. The ceiling gives way, and what was once the second floor falls with a tremendous crash down to the first, beams and supports blockading the doorway, sealing the boys inside.

"Kurt!" Blaine hears the old man yell with panic in his voice. "Kurt! No!"

As the image dissolves and the heat from the fire fades, it's not Andrew's voice Blaine hears calling out Kurt's name anymore. It's his own voice. Blaine feels his mouth dry, his throat burning, and after a second of silence another voice joins his again.

"Blaine?" The voice sounds foggy and far away. Blaine wants to get to it, to hold it, to belong to it, and he runs toward it in his mind. He opens his mouth to scream, but no sound comes out.

"Blaine?" He feels a hand shake his shoulder. "Wake up, sweetie. Wake up."

Blaine can't make his eyes open, and in his mind, he's running in the dark.

He feels another shake to his shoulder.

"Blaine, I need you to wake up."

Blaine reaches up to the hand on his shoulder and closes his fingers around it.

Touching it forces new images to flood his mind.

Kurt lying in the cellar, broken in a hundred irreparable pieces.

An image of Kurt dressed in a fine suit with sorrow-filled eyes.

Kurt sighing with his head stuck out the window of Blaine's car.

Kurt lying in the sun, his porcelain skin glowing with soft, golden light.

Kurt pressing cool lips against Blaine's skin.

"Wake up," Kurt whispers.

Blaine's eyes fly open and he's staring at Kurt – puppet Kurt - in his bedroom, in the dark.

"Blaine," Kurt says, putting a hand behind Blaine's head and stroking his hair. "What's wrong?"

Blaine is panting, his heart pounding so hard he feels physically ill. The blankets on his side of the bed have been shoved off his body and his skin is covered in a sheen of sweat. His mouth is still dry and his throat still burns.

"You died…you died in a fire," Blaine pants out, his voice raw.

Kurt flinches, but he doesn't move away.

"Yes," Kurt says calmly. "Yes, I did."

Blaine's heart races so fast his whole body feels ready to explode.

"Do you remember?" Blaine asks, putting a hand over Kurt's.

"I sort of did," Kurt admits. "Not entirely. It was a notion…or a nightmare. But now that you say it out loud like that, I know it's true."

Blaine nods, more revelations pressing at his brain.

"You saved Andrew's life," Blaine says. "You tried to save Sebastian's life."

Kurt's lips twitch as they attempt to smile.

"I tried," he says softly. "I really did try. But the fire spread so fast, we got caught up in it so quickly."

Blaine watches Kurt relive the memory in his mind and curses to himself. Without intending to, he invaded Kurt's privacy. It was like he read Kurt's diary, only worse. He was there, he saw it all – he didn't have the right.

"I'm sorry," Blaine says, shivering as the sweat cools on his skin and his heartbeat slows to human levels. "I didn't mean to…it just happens."

"No," Kurt says, reaching for the blanket and dragging it up over Blaine's body when he notices him tremble. "It saves me trying to find the words to tell you…"

"That Seabastian loved you?" Blaine asks, the words slipping out before he can stop them. Kurt runs his hand up the blanket that covers Blaine's body, pushing gently on his shoulders to lay him back down.

"Yes," Kurt says, "but I didn't love him. Not that way."

Kurt looks down at Blaine's face, carding his fingers through his curls, pulling a few tangles loose while Blaine thinks back on everything he saw, the tragedy of Kurt's life ending before his eyes.

"What does it feel like to die?" Blaine asks abruptly, not too sure that was the question on his lips waiting to be asked.

Kurt shakes his head and lies down on his pillow.

"I don't really remember," Kurt says. "The feeling of dying, I mean. That moment when you go from being to not being anymore." Kurt pauses. "I remember being scared, knowing I was going to die, but then I just wasn't scared anymore. I guess at that point I was gone and nothing else mattered. I remember being apart from my body, moving away to something bright and glorious. I could feel it at my back and as much as I wanted to go to it, I couldn't. There were too many people I needed to see. Too many people I wanted to take care of."

"Andrew?" Blaine asks, the name leaving a bitter taste on his tongue.

"Yeah," Kurt responds, moving forward and braving an arm around Blaine's waist. Blaine scoots forward into Kurt's embrace, and Kurt snakes another arm beneath Blaine's neck. "And my dad. He came to the funeral. I saw him there. He was so…lost. I wanted to go to him, to apologize, to tell him I should never have left him, but the funny thing was, I knew he would be fine. Sebastian's dad…he blamed himself so much for what happened to us. I couldn't leave him. Despite everything, he took care of us."

Blaine thinks about the memory of that night, of everything that happened while Kurt was upstairs talking to Sebastian.

"How did you know about the letters?" Blaine asks, yawning, leaning his head into Kurt's chest. "From your dad, from Stanford…"

"He told me," Kurt says, running his fingers up Blaine's back, "when he was putting me…putting this puppet body together. And when he performed the spell, we shared some of his memories. All spells have a price, and this one…it forces you to confess your deepest secrets. We saw everything, heard everything. That's how we found out."

And without meaning to, Blaine's heart splinters a little…for Sebastian.

The room goes still, and Kurt's fingers stop moving as he waits for Blaine to say something.

"Blaine?" Kurt asks, looking into the face of the boy in his arms. His eyes had fluttered shut a while ago, and now he breathes in deep, relaxed, asleep but not completely at peace. Kurt rests his cheek atop Blaine's head, in the nest of his dark curly hair. What he wouldn't give to feel Blaine's hair tickling his cheek, or to smell the scent of his shampoo. Blaine makes a small noise and moves in closer, and Kurt shakes all thoughts of self-pity from his head. He has too much to look forward to in this new life to spend any time lingering on his regrets. He presses a kiss to the top of Blaine's head and lets himself fall into that place that's not exactly awake for him, not exactly asleep, but lets him ponder the possibilities of this new life, this new world, this new boy…this new chance for love.


	12. Chapter 12

_The tented cards move quickly beneath the man's nimble hands – nothing but a blur to the eager brown eyes of the girl whose dimwitted boyfriend was about to lose a day's pay. He had come at the raven-haired man with some big words and penny bets, but now the rube was quiet as a mouse and in it over his head with a whole dollar on the line._

_Of course, the man with the crooked grin and the head of black curls dealing the cards isn't necessarily on the up and up. He has a peculiar set of skills that he doesn't openly talk about, but which help him in his line of business. His con of choice is Three-card Monte. He doesn't need a shill to help him swindle these simple country fools. The cards talk to him, but so do most things. If he had to explain it, he would say he's overly perceptive. He sees things before they happen, so in his life there are few surprises. His parents liked to call it pure dumb luck…that is until they kicked him out of their house and told him never to show his face around again. That's fine by him. He has no problem being on his own, especially when he can tell right off the bat who he can trust and who he should stay away from. He uses his special gift to win several of the games along the boardwalk before setting up his own and waiting for dolts like this one to try their luck._

_All the luck belongs to him, so they never even have a chance._

_"Find the pretty lady, find the pretty lady," he says, tossing the cards quickly, and then letting them fall where they want. He lifts his whiskey-hued hazel eyes and fixes them on the man in front of him, who studies the cards carefully like he's reading the Bible._

_"This one," the mark says, jabbing at the card to the far left with his index finger. The man who dealt the cards hisses doubtfully and shakes his head._

_"Are you sure it's that one?" he asks. "Because I wouldn't want you to lose a dollar if you're not entirely sure."_

_The mark looks down at his chosen card, his finger pressing it down flat onto the table, his conviction slipping with every second the man stares at him, waiting for him to make a decision._

_"Come on, Peter," the mud-colored brunette says, bouncing on her feet, "the show's gonna start and we're gonna be late. Just make a choice already."_

_"Yeah, Peter," the man says, his crooked grin becoming more so. "Pick a card so we can wrap this up."_

_Peter's finger on his card begins to waver, and with a huff he switches to the middle card instead. The girl claps and giggles, and the man flips over the card to reveal (with a tiny, hidden glimmer of triumph in his eyes) the three of spades._

_"Ooo," the man says as the girl's inane clapping dies down and Peter stares on in disbelief, "tough luck, kid." He flips over the first card Peter chose to reveal the money card – the queen of hearts. "But those are the breaks. You should always stick to your first instincts."_

_The dealer collects up his cards without looking at his mark. Peter watches, his body shaking with barely restrained outrage._

_"I want my dollar back," Peter says, his voice low and his tone threatening._

_"I'm sorry," the man says, pocketing his deck and Peter's lost dollar. "No refunds."_

_"That's a whole day's paycheck…" Peter leans forward with these words, trying to use his full head's height difference to intimidate the man who doesn't even spare him a glance, "and I'm not throwing it away on you."_

_"Well, then you should be more careful what you do with it." The man's eyes bypass Peter as he winks at the brunette girl with a click of his tongue. He turns on his heel, making to leave, but Peter bars his exit with an arm stuck out, bracing against the wall behind him._

_"Peter," the girl says, "let's just go."_

_"You should listen to your girl, Peter," the man says in a tone leaps and bounds more dangerous than Peter's, "unless you want that arm of yours broke. How are you going to earn back your dollar tomorrow with a stump instead of an arm?"_

_The man turns his eyes up to look at Peter hovering over him. Peter's eyes bore into his, challenging, ready for a fight, but the man with the cards in his pocket is calm, relaxed, and unwilling to back down._

_"Ah, you're not worth it," Peter spits, pushing himself off the wall he's leaning against and storming off the way they had come._

_"So, are we heading to the show?" the girl asks, taking off after her boyfriend._

_"I don't have any more money on me, Bridgette," Peter barks out, "so, no. We ain't going to no Goddamned show!"_

_The man shakes his head and rolls his eyes, pulling the dollar he won from his front pocket. He folds it in half lengthwise, runs it beneath his nose, and gives it a good long sniff._

_"Ahhh," he sighs, folding it up and shoving it back into his pocket, almost drunk off that look of rage in Peter's eyes. He loved his job. He nearly got off on it._

_With a pocket full of money he didn't have an hour before, he considers his choices. He needs to eat. That's priority number one. And if he could find a lay for the night, that would be the cherry on the ice-cream sundae. He turns back around to head for the boardwalk. With his foot hovering in the air, he stops at what he sees coming his way - two young men cutting through the crowd that make him stop and stare. He can't help himself. They're both beautifully young, both incredibly handsome, and they look painfully naïve - though the shorter one with the pale skin and the blue eyes more so than his green-eyed companion. Normally he would pull out his deck of cards and invite them to play, but he sees something in the shorter boy's clear eyes that he doesn't often see out here while he combs the streets for prey._

_This boy is not jaded by life, or society, or circumstance. His smile, though guileless, is also genuine. Those unspeakable blue eyes are brimming with intelligence, and the man watching him seems to know that underneath that innocent exterior is a boy who probably can't be swindled easily._

_The two prepare to pass him by when the green-eyed boy turns and locks eyes with him._

_"What are you staring at?" he snaps, putting an arm protectively around his friend and pulling him closer._

_"Not you," he replies, staring straight into the surprised blue eyes of the boy in front of him. He steps forward, but the green-eyed boy steps back, taking his companion back a step with him. He keeps his gaze glued to the blushing young man's face, resisting the urge to shoot the other obnoxious twit a withering glare. "Hello, gorgeous. My name's Devon," he says with a side-ways grin. "Devon Anderson." He extends his hand towards the young man, who steps forward and takes it._

_"Kurt," the boy replies, shaking the man's hand once. "Kurt Hummel."_

_"Kurt," Devon repeats, saying the word softly, like the prelude to a kiss, and the boy's cheeks color pink and pretty, high on his cheeks. Devon is suddenly fascinated by this young man in front of him, with eyes like cool water and skin as smooth and perfect as fine bone China._

_"Yeah, and my name's Sebastian," his snarky friend says, tugging Kurt by the shoulders and pulling his hand from Devon's grasp. "I'm sorry to break this up, but we've got a show to perform." Sebastian puts weight on the words as if they should matter to Devon. He nods, but his eyes never leave Kurt's face._

_"Are you two boys in that Smythe and Sons folly down at the forum?"_

_"Yeah," Kurt says._

_"We're headliners," Sebastian puts in with an air of importance._

_"I saw that a few nights ago. Quite a bit of a farce, I'll tell you that…" He smiles when Sebastian scowls but he doesn't linger on his face too long, turning his hazel eyes on Kurt again. "But the boy with the silver pipes here was worth the price of the ticket. A whole nickel."_

_"That's sweet of you to say, Mr. Anderson," Kurt says._

_"Please," the man says, "call me Devon."_

_"Devon," Kurt says, and for the first time in a long while, Devon feels his heart stutter._

_"Super. Well, we have to get going," Sebastian says again, sounding defensive and maybe a bit jealous._

_"Hey," Devon says, following after Kurt before his ill-tempered friend can yank him away. "Whatcha doin' later? Maybe I can take you out for a soda after your show?"_

_Kurt bites his lip, his eyes darting down to his shoes and the dirt beneath his feet, an unconscious reminder to keep himself grounded. His dreams aren't here, that's for sure, and he can't let himself get attached to anything that might keep him here._

_"Maybe in another life," Kurt says coyly, turning away from the man with the raven curls, who stands against the wall and watches the boy walk away, a small hole forming in his chest._

_"It's a date," Devon whispers, taking a last look at Kurt before he walks completely out of his life._

* * *

Blaine wakes up with a smile on his face, mumbling the words to one of his favorite songs.

_You make me feel like I'm livin' a teenage dream, the way you turn me on…_

_As he becomes more aware – as his mind leaves the bustling boardwalk from his dream behind – he can hear the tune playing in the air around him. He opens his eyes to the morning sunlight. He stretches his arms over his head, feeling the satisfying crack of his back, stiff from slouching over Sebastian's puppet body earlier this morning, and that's when he realizes he is hearing the music, playing somewhere off in the distance._

_The living room. He left his cell phone on the floor in the living room._

_Crap._

_He doesn't want to get out of bed. He doesn't want to wake up after getting nearly negative hours of sleep. _

_He doesn't want to leave Kurt._

_He debates the merits of ignoring the ringing phone. They're ripping out the walls today, but it's just a house. Who would really be impacted if they put off demolition for one day? He knows he'd be happy to call in sick and spend the rest of the day wrapped up in Kurt's arms. Blaine sighs, daydreaming of an afternoon full of nothing but slow kisses and the occasional nap. He still has yet to ask Kurt his feelings about that. But he knows they can't right now. They're moving on in the renovation, and Blaine has a job to do._

_That could be the contractor calling this very minute._

_Besides, with Sebastian around the house, there probably wouldn't be much uninterrupted making out going on between them._

_Blaine groans, but only in his head so he doesn't wake Kurt up. He takes a look at the resting puppet, his eyes shut, his pink lips forming a sweet smile, his cheeks unnaturally rosy, but the permanent flush of color suits him. Blaine wonders what Kurt would do if he put a kiss to his forehead…to his cheek…to his smiling mouth…_

_The phone stops ringing and Blaine gladly starts to climb back in bed, but then the song begins again, signaling that whoever it was called back. The ringing phone is a persistent presence, summoning Blaine from beneath the covers. He leaves the bed and tiptoes into the living room, the floor ice-cold beneath his feet._

_Scorching hot days, freezing cold nights._

_It was such a joy to be in a desert._

_With his sole focus on silencing the ringing phone, he accidentally hits the blanket on the floor and slides, almost falling forward on his face. He catches himself and scoops up his phone just as it stops ringing._ Blaine growls at the Godforsaken thing, mumbling nonsense warnings at it underneath his breath. He stands up, hoping that the sound of him tripping didn't wake Sebastian. Blaine isn't in the mood to lure him out of Cooper's room with the promise of another argument. He peeks at the door, open a crack, the room inside suspiciously dark for this hour of the morning. Blaine frowns at trying so hard to avoid him. He doesn't want this to turn into a feud. It would all be so much easier if they could find some kind of middle ground and become friends, though that's less than likely to happen when Sebastian hates his guts.

Blaine plops down into the dining room chair and looks at his phone. He missed four calls – all from Cooper. _Now_ Blaine groans out loud. He can't escape drama, no matter how hard he tries. If he's not plagued by one self-important ass, why not another? Blaine is about to pocket his phone and ignore him, but he annoyingly discovers he can't. He doesn't really feel like talking to his older brother but he can't prolong the inevitable. He can't finish the renovation without Cooper and bowing out is not an option. Blaine is not that kind of person.

Besides, Cooper is his brother, and like it or not Blaine has worked hard to have this relationship with him, even if he is a conceited egomaniac. Blaine redials the number, waiting with the phone held away from his ear for his brother to answer, hoping that the call goes to voicemail.

"Hey, squirt."

_No such luck._

"What do you want, Cooper?" Blaine asks, using his exhaustion to help fuel his bitterness. "Are you calling about the house, or did you want to tell me what an idiot I am again?"

Cooper sighs into the phone, hoping that after 24 hours Blaine wouldn't be upset anymore.

"Look," Cooper says, "I'm sorry, alright? I didn't mean what I said. You're not stupid. I just…I just worry about you."

Blaine looks down at his feet against the hard wood floor, hot skin causing vapor to form on the slick, chilled surface. He doesn't say anything because in his mind there's nothing he needs to say.

He might have just brushed Cooper's comment away if he hadn't mentioned their parents. Cooper knows that the issue Blaine has with their folks is a hot-button one, but Cooper loves to push buttons so much that sometimes Blaine doesn't think Cooper knows he's doing it.

"And that house…" he continues when Blaine doesn't speak, "I know it's messing with your head."

That statement Blaine has to agree with. There _is_ something about that house. He felt it before he even went into it - something even more than Kurt and Sebastian. Something more he's still missing, he thinks.

"I know," he says quietly in non-committal agreement, raising a hand to wipe the grains of sleep from the corners of his eyes, "but like I said, you don't have to worry about me, especially if you're going to be an ass about it."

"But, I do worry about you, little brother," Cooper says in that sincere voice Blaine only hears on the rarest occasions. "I love you, you big nerd."

Suddenly it's all right there – a disjointed, rambling explanation about Andrew and the spell and Kurt and Sebastian and the fire that killed them. He wants to tell his brother. He needs to tell _someone_. As much as he cares for Kurt, as much as he needs to keep him safe, all of these secrets are aching in Blaine's body to be told, but as much as he tries, the words don't come out.

"I love you, too," Blaine says in their place, closing his eyes and leaning back in his chair and sliding down so far he nearly falls to the floor.

"So…am I forgiven?" Cooper asks, knowing better than to try and charm his way out of an argument with his brother but giving it a shot anyway.

Blaine smiles. He can't stay mad at Cooper for too long. He's not just his brother – he's his friend. An inappropriate friend you try not to bring over to your house too often if you can help it, but a friend.

One of his best friends.

"Speaking of…how's your head?" Cooper asks, which Blaine knows is code for _has he had any visions lately? _

Cooper believes in his brother's abilities – always has, ever since Blaine was little and his mother dismissed the creepily accurate things he said as mere coincidence, or _good guesses_.

Cooper doesn't _want_ to believe, but he believes.

"It's alright," Blaine says, "nothing too out-of-the-ordinary, only…I had kind of an interesting dream about Great-Grandpa Devon."

"I'm not surprised," Cooper says with a laugh, slipping comfortably back into his usual cocky self. "He had some weird voodoo thing going on like you do."

"Yeah," Blaine says, "I remember dad saying something about that a long time ago." He opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling, trying to recall as much of the dream as he can. This isn't the first time he'd dreamt of his great-grandfather. He had been kind of named after him, and his grandmother always said that names carry connections – strong connections. Could those connections include psychic powers?

This dream couldn't have been a _memory_. Kurt and Sebastian were in it, and Blaine can't remember ever seeing either of them in a dream before.

But it seemed so real. As he woke up this morning, he could smell traces of popcorn from the boardwalk mixed with the sweet scent of cotton candy, and some sort of strong cologne – probably something Peter was wearing.

"He apparently had some great scam going," Cooper says, "all up and down the West Coast. Was tarred and feathered in one town, I think."

"God," Blaine exhales, pondering how painful it would be to remove hardened tar from a human body without taking the skin off along with it. Strangely, the way his skin prickles and his muscles go rigid, it feels like an experience he's already had.

"Yeah, I know," Cooper commiserates. "So…moving on. Yay! I'm forgiven! Thank God, because that last footage you sent me was shit. I need some better stuff, tout de suite." Blaine winces at Cooper's butchered high school French. "I'm on a deadline, you know."

Blaine snickers.

"Do you even know the meaning of the word 'deadline'?" Blaine jokes.

"Yes, I do," Cooper mocks, "unlike you, who have apparently forgotten."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Blaine asks.

"The sketches?" Cooper asks. "Does that ring a bell?"

Blaine thinks a moment of their conversation yesterday, all those stupid texts, with no mention of…

"Shit!" Blaine mutters, jerking upright. Cooper is right. He had forgotten.

Thinking back on the rest of yesterday, it's easy to see how.

"Shit's right, Blaine," Cooper says. Blaine can here Cooper's normal shuffling around, pecking at computer keys, shifting papers. "I have a buyer already interested in the house but he wants to see what we intend on doing with it first, so I need those sketches pronto. Pronto-issimo, if possible."

"Yeah, sure," Blaine covers, so overwhelmed that he doesn't even bother to point out that 'pronto-issimo' isn't a real word. He curses quietly, knowing that a decent mock-up is going to take more time than he has.

"Focus on the main rooms," Cooper says, biting into an apple and talking with his mouth full. "Don' wor'y 'bout the basemen' an' all that."

"Okay," Blaine says, standing and pacing the floor, trying to get his blurry brain to think, "will do. Why don't you let me get going so I can get you…that."

"Great," Cooper drawls sloppily, taking another bite. "Than's a lot, bud'y. I'll tal' wit you la'er."

"Don't choke on your apple," Blaine says and then disconnects the call.

He paces a few more steps and then curses out loud.

"Shit!" he says, tapping his chin with his phone and stomping back to the bedroom. "Shitshitshitshitshit…"

He stops cursing when he walks through the bedroom door. He expects to see Kurt asleep. He had hoped to climb back into bed again and sneak his arms around him. But Kurt is sitting up at the edge of the bed with his sewing in hand as he waits for Blaine to return.

"Good morning, Blaine," Kurt says with a smile that Blaine wouldn't mind waking up to every morning. He eyes the phone in Blaine's hand and tilts his head. "Who would call you so early?"

"My brother," Blaine says with a one-armed shrug, distracted.

"Oh," Kurt says as he ties off his thread. He reaches over to Blaine's desk for a pair of scissors and delicately clips the end. "You know, I was wondering…" Kurt starts. His smile becomes bashful and he avoids Blaine's eyes by concentrating on hiding the knotted end of his thread, "I would like to try and help you out today…with the house, if I can."

Blaine nods, not entirely paying attention.

"Yeah," he says. "Sure. I'm certain I can find…"

Blaine smiles as Kurt's offer registers and the perfect opportunity leaps immediately to mind.

"Actually, I _can_ use your help today," Blaine says. Kurt sits up straight, trying to bite his lip, probably out of habit, but not quite making it. "I was wondering if you would be willing to help me with some sketches."

"Sketches?" Kurt asks, his eyebrows meeting in the middle.

"Remember the sketches you did while you were in the car? Of the house? I need some sketches done of the living room, the bed rooms, the kitchen…you know, the important rooms."

"Okay," Kurt says, sounding a bit skeptical, "and why would you need that?"

"Because I need to show people who are interested in buying the house what it's going to look like when we're done with it," Blaine explains, taking a seat beside Kurt on the bed, "and I kind of was supposed to do it yesterday. I might have forgotten."

Blaine looks up at him with open, pleading eyes and a downturned mouth, leaning his head on Kurt's shoulder and looking ridiculously childish. Kurt chuckles.

"But how am I supposed to know what it's going to look like?" Kurt asks, pushing at Blaine's shoulder but not hard enough to move him away.

"Just draw what you think it should look like," Blaine says. "We're restoring it to as close to the original style as possible."

Blaine looks at Kurt and Kurt looks right back.

"I trust you," Blaine adds and Kurt shakes his head.

"Alright," Kurt agrees. "I think I can do that." Kurt looks down at his hands, at his twiddling thumbs. "Will I be able to take a peek inside the house?" he asks. "I know it might sound silly, but I'm kind of curious. I kind of need to go back."

"It doesn't sound silly at all," Blaine says, remembering the time his sophomore year when he had been bullied at a school dance. A few homophobic jocks ganged up on him and his date, and had beaten him up pretty badly. After that, he didn't want to go back to school. He asked his parents to transfer him somewhere else and they agreed, but his father told him that if he ran away from bullies like that, he'd be running forever. Blaine didn't think he could ever walk the halls of McKinley again, but he gave it a chance, and he did it with his head held high.

Blaine understands that sometimes it's important to revisit the prisons that try to break you and prove they don't have that power.

Kurt was trapped in that house - in that prison - literally broken. It would make sense that he would want to walk back into that house whole.

"Let's get dressed and get an early start," Blaine suggests, patting at Kurt's knee.

"Any particular reason?" Kurt asks, following Blaine with his eyes as the boy heads back toward the living room. Blaine stops and turns around in the doorway.

"I was hoping to wrap up early today," Blaine explains. "This way I can ask you out on another date." Blaine winks at Kurt and leaves it at that, padding across the wood floor of the still empty living room and heading for the dining room. He looks left and right, at both bedroom doors, and then ducks beneath the table.

He left the three journals from yesterday stuffed underneath the rear seat in his car, mostly read, but he needs new ones to read. Blaine wants to understand Sebastian. He wants to find a reason why this boy who seemed so besotted by Kurt - who still seems so in love with him - can treat him the way he does, with so much hurt and disdain. He can't exactly ask Sebastian these questions, so he decides to go to the source and read what Andrew has to say about his son. He wants to understand the relationship Sebastian had with his father that molded the acerbic personality he has. His father couldn't have always been so apathetic about his son. There had to have been a time when he loved his boy. What happened between them? What was the turning point?

He tears open all the boxes at once to save time and rummages through the many journals, inspecting the dates on the covers. He knows what he's trying to find. _1923_ – the year before the Smythes found Kurt, and perhaps _1929_ – the year Andrew Smythe was planning to pawn off his son's virginity. He comes across 1929 first, right after 1927 in the space left by the journal he borrowed yesterday, but he can't seem to find 1923…or 1922. He was sure they were there before, but now they're gone.

He hears footsteps in both bedrooms, and has to think quickly. Kurt doesn't know he has the journals and he's not sure what Kurt would say about him reading them, but Blaine doesn't think this is the best way for him to find out.

He has an idea. He rifles through the books and finds the one that smells like smoke – _1932_. He stares at it, at the cover still blanketed in a layer of fine ash. Touching it, running his fingers through the filth and collecting it up on his fingers, triggers a memory – the heat, the flames, the screams. It's the journal that was lying on the small table in Andrew Smythe's house during that tragic fire. Somehow it survived the blaze. Blaine peeks into the other boxes he hadn't opened yet to make sure the journals he's looking for didn't migrate there. The dates continue up and up, well into the sixties and seventies, and as clues click together and thoughts formulate in his head, Blaine has a sudden streak of inspiration. Andrew Smythe wrote constantly. He recorded the events of nearly every single day, even after his son and Kurt had died. Maybe somewhere in these journals is the answer to saving Kurt and Sebastian. Maybe the spell he used is written down somewhere in these later journals, along with the way to reverse it.

Blaine hears a creak in the floor and a footstep coming closer.

"Kurt?" he calls out from beneath the cloth, but he doesn't get a reply. He takes off his t-shirt and wraps it around the two books he has in his hands. Then he closes the flaps of the boxes, leaving them basically covered since he doesn't have the time to tuck in the flaps. He crawls out from beneath the table, smacking his head on the lip as he backs out completely. He rubs the sore spot on his head with his hand and stands, running straight into an unpleasant smirking face.

"Hey, Sebastian," Blaine says dryly, hugging the concealed books to his chest.

"Hey there, sport," Sebastian answers, crossing his arms over his chest. "Whatcha doin' under there?"

Blaine looks the puppet over, noticing that Sebastian had found a pair of pants and a t-shirt in his brother's closet that fit him. Having his wooden body covered up made him only a little less unsettling.

"Nothing," Blaine answers blandly. "Just getting something I needed for today." He lifts the wrapped books in his arms slightly, but doesn't offer them up for Sebastian's approval.

"A-ha," Sebastian says, raising an eyebrow the same way Kurt often does, but in Sebastian's case, it seems sinister. "And you keep important things under the dining room table."

Blaine becomes annoyed that he's being interrogated by Sebastian and that this unwarranted line of questioning is keeping him from getting back to Kurt, who he had asked on another date.

"Well, where would you keep them?" Blaine asks, brushing past Sebastian with a smile starting on his face, unconcerned with what Sebastian may think of him.

Besides, if Blaine's right and the journals under the table hold the secret to reversing the spell, Blaine might not have to deal with Sebastian any more. His soul will be free of his puppet body and he can move on.

A step away from his door, with his hand reaching for the door knob, the thought boomeranged around and hit him in the chest.

Reversing Andrew's spell won't give him a _human_ Kurt. It will free Kurt's soul from his puppet body.

Blaine thinks it over and over, but he can't deny that seems like the only logical recourse.

Saving Kurt from an eternity as a puppet means releasing his soul and sending him on.

After that, Blaine might never see Kurt again.


	13. Chapter 13

Kurt comes out of the bedroom and almost walks straight into Blaine, who is standing in the doorway, struck dumb by his thoughts.

"Oh!" Kurt yelps, putting a hand to his chest. "Good heavens, you gave me a start. I didn't expect you to be right there!"

"Sorry," Blaine says, "I…"

Blaine blinks and looks at Kurt, who is dressed in one of Blaine's own short sleeve button-down shirts and the black slacks of his father's that Kurt has been hemming. Blaine smiles, his fears of losing Kurt forgotten for the moment as he appreciates the way the new pants perfectly drape over Kurt's legs.

"My goodness," Blaine says, stepping back and looking down Kurt's body. Kurt seizes the opportunity to strike a pose as a ploy to cover his self-consciousness. "You did a wonderful job."

"Do you think so?" Kurt asks, spinning around slowly so that Blaine can see the pants from all sides.

"Yeah," Blaine says. "And I have to add that I like you in my blue shirt."

"You do?"

Blaine nods.

"Yes, sir. Very much."

"I'm glad," Kurt says with a sigh of relief. "I didn't want you to be upset that I took the liberty of borrowing your clothes."

"Borrow whatever you like," Blaine says, raising a hand to fix Kurt's shirt collar, even though it didn't need any fixing. "Mi wardrobe su wardrobe."

"Oh, good grief," Sebastian mutters, stomping off back to Cooper's bedroom with Abigail materializing suddenly and scampering after him, close on his heels.

"Come on, Sebastian," Kurt says with a cheerful drawl to his voice. "Get dressed."

"For what?" Sebastian asks, leaning against the door jamb and staring at the obnoxious pair of fools in front of him.

"Don't you want to come with Blaine and me?" Kurt asks. "If that's okay with you, that is, Blaine."

"Of course," Blaine says, plastering a fake smile on his face so wide that it almost makes his lips crack. "The more the merrier."

"Going with Blaine _where_, exactly?" Sebastian asks, growing visibly more dubious with each question.

"Back to the house. Blaine has some work he has to do fixing the place up and I'm going to help him."

Blaine's fake smile softens at the adorable way Kurt puffs his chest out proudly at that, but Sebastian drops his head back on his neck, banging it lightly against the wood of the doorway. The resulting _crack_ noise of wood against wood, reminiscent to the sound a bowling ball makes when it hits pins, is something Blaine isn't sure he's going to get used to.

"Oh no," Sebastian says, putting up his hands. "I'm not going back to that place anytime soon. No way, no how."

Blaine bites his lip, giving him time to think before he's expected to try and convince Sebastian to come along, which is what he's sure Kurt wants. Blaine would prefer it if Sebastian stayed at the beach house to sulk, but he's not too thrilled with the idea of leaving a vindictive Sebastian alone to do God knows what.

"Look," Sebastian says, inferring the meaning behind Blaine's silence, "I might hate you, but I'm not going to bite the hand that feeds me, either. Like it or not, I need you, like Kurt needs you, to negotiate this being alive and shit, so, just leave me the remote to the TV, point me in the direction of a few good books, and I promise I'll be a good boy."

Blaine looks Sebastian over as the wooden puppet continues to stare up at the ceiling. Blaine hasn't spent as much time assessing Sebastian as he has Kurt, but looking at him this time, he seems burdened, vulnerable. Sometimes it's hard for Blaine to remember that this God-awful thing happened to the both of them – not only to Kurt. Maybe he saw the attack on Kurt through Kurt's eyes because he and Kurt seem to have some special connection, but Sebastian was attacked, too. He was attacked _first_. He defended Kurt. He took blows meant for Kurt. That has to be worth a smidgen of Blaine's trust.

"I believe him," Kurt says, slipping his hand into Blaine's, his voice more confident and self-assured. "I don't think he's going to do anything bad."

Blaine only needs Kurt's reassurance to help him make his decision.

"Alright," Blaine says. "You can stay."

"Thank you, oh benevolent dictator," Sebastian replies, heavy with sarcasm.

Blaine grits his teeth and runs his hands through his hair. He understands Sebastian's frustration. He went from being trapped in one house to being trapped in another, but there's little Blaine can do about that.

"I'm going to go pull the trash bins down to the curb for the garbage men," Blaine says, turning his attention back to Kurt. "Pick me out something to wear?"

"Sure thing," Kurt says, leaning in and giving Blaine a kiss on the cheek.

Sebastian rolls his eyes and disappears into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. The sound makes Kurt jump, but he doesn't look as wary about Sebastian and his anger anymore.

"Just…give him some time. He'll come around," Kurt says, eying the closed door. "I'm sure he will."

"Of course he will," Blaine agrees, taking Sebastian's tantrum in his stride. "I'm not worried." Blaine's smile for Kurt is tight but Kurt doesn't seem to notice, too focused on the task of finding Blaine something to wear for the day. Blaine watches Kurt head for his closet, open the door, and then stand with his hip cocked and a finger pressed to his lip as he mulls over the clothes hanging in front of him. Then Blaine heads outside to take care of the trash. He pulls the blue recycling bin and the grey trash bin down to the curb, lifting the lid of the grey bin to bid a final farewell to that despicable suit. It lies draped over rotting food, unchanged except for an army of black flies and maggots surrounding it, summoned by the summer heat.

"Good riddance," he mutters, slamming the lid shut and giving the container a kick.

* * *

Blaine is quiet on the ride down to the project house, but Kurt doesn't seem to mind. He has his head resting against his crossed arms on the sill of the open car window, the wind whipping through his hair, the sun warming his face, thoroughly enjoying the ride.

Blaine, dressed in the blue corduroy pants and the zip stripe pullover Kurt chose for him, feels on a different plane of existence from his content friend, his mind absorbed by his thoughts of finding a spell that can help Kurt. But if helping him means losing him... No, Blaine cannot be selfish. It's not his place to decide for Kurt. Maybe Kurt doesn't want to be a puppet any more. Maybe the time they get to spend together is _meant_ to be temporary.

He steals a few glances at an untroubled Kurt, wishing that wherever Kurt is in his head, he could be with him.

Maybe Blaine is overreacting. Maybe this isn't the end. What if there is a spell that can make Kurt a real human? If there's a spell to turn him into a puppet, becoming human can't be too far a stretch in the realm of belief…can it?

The car is silent except for the sound of wind rushing through the open window, and when Blaine turns to look at Kurt again, the puppet is leaning in close with a hand cupped over his left ear.

"What are you doing?" Blaine asks with a laugh.

"Well, you're thinking so loudly I can almost make out a few words, but it's hard to hear over the sound of traffic."

Blaine chuckles. Kurt sits up, leaning against his chair and staring as Blaine keeps his eyes on the road.

"Is there something you want to talk about?" Kurt asks. "Is it Sebastian?"

Blaine's jaw clenches when he tries to smile Kurt's worries away.

"It's alright if you don't like him," Kurt says, his voice ebbing, expecting an ultimatum. "He was my only friend for a long time, and most of the time _I_ could barely stand him."

Blaine chuckles again, but this time he sits lower in his seat, relaxing as Kurt talks.

"I know it's a lot to ask of you," Kurt continues, "to put up with him…and me."

Blaine turns his head.

"You think I'm just putting up with you?" Blaine asks. He slows down as he takes the exit to Harbor Drive, looking from the road to Kurt. Kurt shrinks an inch into his seat and Blaine notices. "I'm not _putting up_ with you, Kurt. I enjoy hanging out with you. I enjoy being with you."

"Really?" Kurt asks.

"Really," Blaine says, shifting nervously in his seat. "In fact, I know we haven't really known each other more than a few days, but I was hoping…"

He turns the corner, looks out the windshield, and stops the car as well as his sentence. Down the normally empty cul-de-sac are parked cars and trucks, back to back, some two deep. A dumpster has been delivered and is sitting at the curve of the curb, waiting to be filled. A U-Haul truck (not Gary's this time) sticks out from the curb at an obtrusive angle.

"Crap," Blaine whispers, watching as groups of people segregate and form, waiting for his arrival.

"What is it, Blaine?" Kurt folds his hands in his lap, hoping that Blaine will finish what he had started to say before he throws himself into the obvious mob waiting for him.

"Uh…I didn't expect this," he admits. "I thought we would get here before everybody else, considering all the no-shows from yesterday."

Kurt watches the expression on Blaine's face change and knows that whatever he was going to say is gone for the time being.

"So, how exactly am I going to be able to go into the house without anyone seeing…me?" Kurt asks, gesturing down at his puppet body. "I'm sure there're a few things that people are bound to notice."

"Easy, actually," Blaine says, pulling his car to the curb a fair distance from the house. He lets the engine idle, climbing out of the car and walking around to the trunk. He pops it open and grabs something from inside, then returns to Kurt with a white bundle shoved underneath his arm.

"What is that?" Kurt asks when Blaine hands it over.

"This is a biohazard suit," Blaine explains. "I sometimes wear it during demolition, to protect me from dust and mold and all that."

Kurt looks at the white suit, and then at Blaine.

"But don't you need it?"

"I'll be alright," Blaine says, waving a hand in front of his face. "Besides, I have a bunch in the trunk. They're one-time use only. Here…" Blaine reaches across the seat to unbuckle Kurt's seat belt, "let me help you. It's kind of confusing your first time."

"Oh…" Kurt gasps at the feeling of Blaine slipping the boat shoes he borrowed off his feet, his head brushing Kurt's lap as he works to slip the legs of the plastic garment over them. Blaine folds Kurt's pant legs over so they don't get too wrinkled, working clinically, not allowing Kurt's legs beneath his hands to derail him, clearing his mind of every possible thought so that he won't slip into the vision curling at the front of his mind.

But it's a powerful image, and as much as he can push the visual of it away, it's the sounds of Kurt's whimpers he can't ignore, the feeling of his muscular thighs – firm and strong – underneath Blaine's palms, and a new sensation – Kurt's hands weeding their way through his hair, tugging, pulling, tightening as he groans and grunts, that beautiful high-pitched whine filling his ears, _"Yes, Blaine! Yes! Yes!"_

Blaine gets the impression, as he continues to roll the suit up Kurt's body, with Kurt lifting up to help him maneuver around him, that this won't be the last time he has his head in Kurt's lap in this car.

By the time Blaine reaches Kurt torso, he's out of breath, and sweat has started to bead at his hairline. Kurt stares at him puzzled, but he lets Blaine finish pulling the sleeves over his arms and the hood up over his head.

Blaine doesn't even have to see the full-extent of Kurt's complicated gaze before he laughs nervously.

"Okay," Blaine says, moving things along, "now we pull on the string-ties, and the hood will scrunch around your face a bit. That way, all anyone will see is your eyes." Blaine pulls the strings slowly, watching Kurt's face disappear behind the plastic with his blue glass eyes peeking out. Blaine leans back to take a better look. If anyone takes a good, long look at Kurt, they'll notice something is a little off about him, but the likelihood that anyone will care about him one way or another is slim to none.

"There," Blaine says, pecking a kiss on Kurt's covered nose, "now you're invisible."

"Invisible, huh?" Kurt asks.

"Well," Blaine says, running a hand over Kurt's cheek, "_almost_ invisible. How do you feel?"

Kurt lifts his arms in front of him, wiggling the fingers on his gloved hand, the plastic _crinking_ and _squicking _as he moves his extremities.

"Very well packaged," Kurt says. "Kind of like a leftover."

Blaine laughs and puts the idling car back into gear, driving down the length of the street to park in the only empty spot left – right in front of the house.

Dozens of pairs of eyes look his way when he kills the engine to his vehicle.

Blaine turns to Kurt, eyes peeking out from the plastic suit he's wearing.

"Are you ready for this?" Blaine asks, putting a hand on Kurt's knee.

Kurt looks down at the hand. Blaine putting it there is such a simply sweet, nonchalant gesture – nothing insinuated or implied, not searching for more.

But who knew such an innocent touch could be so sexy?

"Yes," Kurt says, nodding in case the words get lost somewhere between his throat and the cave-like mouth of the suit.

Blaine leans over and reaches into the glove box, pulling out the wireless webcam.

"Okay," Blaine says, winking at Kurt, withstanding the urge to place one more kiss on Kurt's nose, or one on his upper lip, or the corner of his mouth… "Our public awaits."

Blaine steps out of the car, and right away several men and women come forward, all of them veteran house-flippers, several having already worked with Blaine while he's been in San Diego. Blaine smiles his _business_ _smile_, watching out of the corner of his eye as Kurt emerges, sketch pad clutched against his chest, looking out of place even though several other crew people are dressed in similar biohazard suits. Blaine switches on the webcam to record the beginnings to the major part of this venture.

"So, this is basically going to be the same as any other build…" Blaine starts to the group assembled. Kurt walks up behind him, trying to keep out of the limelight. "I need all the furniture packed up into the U-Haul, all the carpets ripped up, the drywall taken down _carefully_…"

Kurt watches Blaine command the group of adults, a smile on his face tucked inside the white suit. _So young to be in charge of all these people, _he thinks. _This is a boy who's going places. This is a boy with a future._

Kurt doesn't dwell. He doesn't let it make him feel bad about his current predicament.

"We won't be starting in on the basement until tomorrow. And this…" Blaine says, putting a hand on Kurt's shoulder, "is Kurt. He's my assistant for today working on the design scheme and he has no information with regard to the build plans, so don't ask him."

People nod, some smile, others look at Kurt as if they know something he doesn't. The group breaks up, walking back to their individual sections, confident in their assignments.

"Do you know those people well?" Kurt asks, following Blaine as he heads toward the front door.

"No, not really," Blaine says. "I mean, we talk when we're on a break but we're not, like, friends." Kurt looks over his shoulder at one group in particular where two women are talking, heads leaned in together, staring at Kurt and Blaine and chuckling.

Blaine pulls out his keys and starts to unlock the door.

"Now, there's going to be a lot of people coming in and out of here, so stick close to me," Blaine warns him. "I don't want to lose you."

He feels Kurt press his body against his.

"Is this close enough?" Kurt asks.

The keys stop turning in the door.

"I think that'll work," Blaine says, pushing the door in and propping it open, clearing a path for people to get in and get to work.

Blaine looks back at Kurt, still hugging his notebook to his chest, watching a swarm of people start tearing apart the house, piece by piece dismantling it, his hooded eyes unable to concentrate on one person, one activity, bouncing around at the organized chaos.

"Did you want me to take you upstairs?" Blaine asks. He watches the furniture movers head down the hallway for the dining room and the hidden staircase to the upper level.

"No, uh…can we just stay down here…for a bit?" Kurt asks. "I'm feeling, maybe, a bit overwhelmed."

"Sure," Blaine says, reaching back to take Kurt's hand and give it a light squeeze. "We can for sure hang down here. I'm just going to go ahead and film some of this. Do you mind?"

"No. No. Go ahead."

Blaine holds Kurt's hand and sweeps the camera around, picking up the flurry of activity – furniture being moved, trash bagged up and taken out to the dumpster, the start of drywall being cut down. Kurt giggles behind Blaine as he circles in place, holding on to keep his balance.

"So, as you can see, we have the first part of the build underway," Blaine says out loud, recording the footage for Cooper. "As per the request of the San Diego Historical Society, we are having the drywall cut down instead of hammered, which will take a bit longer, but insures that the original structure of the house remains untouched." Blaine spins around quickly and Kurt laughs louder. Blaine trains the webcam on a group in similar biohazard suits as Kurt's heading for the kitchen with blue plastic trash bags. "Here we see our clean-up crew heading for the kitchen to manage the mess in there." Blaine hears the sounds of footsteps tromping through the living room and turns again. "And here we have the furniture from the attic being taken out of the house for use later." He follows the group carrying the lamps and Queen Victoria wing chairs as they march out the door. "And here we see…Jesus!"

A pair of wire-rimmed frames and piercing eyes pops into view, startling Blaine straight to the bone.

Blaine turns off the webcam and lowers it, coming nose to nose with the severely distasteful man that he was sure he had seen the last of.

"Alex! What are you doing here?" Blaine asks, forgoing niceties. "I didn't need Gary here today." Blaine pulls Kurt close behind him, keeping the concealed puppet out of the man's line of sight. "All the toys are gone."

"I'm not here because of _him_," Alex says with a sniffle, scrunching his nose at the rising clouds of dust. He reaches into the front pocket of his stiff three-piece suit and pulls out a handkerchief, holding it inefficiently over his nose and mouth.

"Then you're here because…" Blaine prompts.

"Because you're tearing out walls," he says, looking around in disgust, "and I'm still interested in the whereabouts of Sammy. If he's here, I want to be on hand to see him."

_Ugh_! Blaine scoffs quietly, thinking of a way – _any_ way – to get Alex off the property. But not coming up with a single method that wouldn't require numerous phone calls and more time than he has to spare, he groans.

"Fine! Just…stay out of the way."

"Of course," Alex mutters. Kurt peeks over Blaine's shoulder and sees Alex glaring, but then his eyes find Kurt and he stops. He stares. He leans forward, eyes centering in on Kurt's glass eyes, which Kurt averts down and away, leaning his forehead against the back of Blaine's neck in an attempt to hide.

"Interesting," Alex says, trying to circle Blaine for a better view. "Very interesting."

"If you don't mind," Blaine says, turning his body swiftly and cutting Alex off, wrapping both arms behind him protectively, "we have a lot of work to do."

"Yes," Alex says, looking the two boys up and down, "I can see that."

Alex turns, walks off into a cloud of dust, and disappears.

Blaine shakes his head. On top of taping the demolition and keeping Kurt from getting hurt, now he has to keep an eye out for Alex.

_What else could possibly go wrong?_

"Dear God in heaven, what is that!?" a man from outside yells.

Blaine rolls his eyes to the heavens.

_Did he have to ask?_

"It looks like a mummified baby!" another man calls.

That certainly gets Blaine's attention. He switches on the webcam – repulsed with himself that _that's_ his first instinct, but he knows that a mummified baby is something Cooper is going to want on film.

"Don't touch it!" a third voice yells.

Blaine grabs Kurt's hand and races outside, pushing his way through the forming crowd with Kurt close on his heels. From what Blaine can tell before the crowd in front of him closes ranks, two men carrying a trunk dropped one end and the thing toppled over, spilling its contents onto the street. Blaine weaves through the group with muttered apologizes and a raised, "Excuse me! Coming through!" here and there. When they come to the center of the commotion – the over-turned chest with a body lying on the asphalt – Blaine has to take a step back.

The _thing_ sprawled out on the ground definitely looks like a mummified baby.

"Sammy!" Kurt chirps from inside his biohazard suit.

Blaine looks away from the pseudo-corpse and stares at him.

"Really?" Blaine turns back to the puppet on the floor. "_That's_ the puppet everyone wants to see? _That's_ Sammy? Are you sure?"

"Of course, I'm sure," Kurt laughs. "I'd recognize that horrid thing anywhere."

"Really," Alex's snide voice cuts in. He wedges his way between Blaine and Kurt, separating the two boys as he tries to get a better view at the priceless puppet lying in the street, but he seems more intent on keeping his eyes on the plastic gap that exposes Kurt's eyes. "That's very interesting, especially since this puppet went missing long before you were born."

Blaine looks at the man and raises a challenging eyebrow.

"Internet," he says, reaching around Alex and taking Kurt's hand, pulling him toward the puppet. "You're not the only person in the world with an interest in Vaudeville culture."

While everyone ooo's and aah's over the disturbing puppet, Blaine rights the chest that it was kept in. It's heavier than Blaine expects now that it's empty. He sets it upright, examining it front to back, top to bottom. He hadn't come across it during his initial investigation of the house, and it has Blaine fascinated. It's a large trunk - much larger than necessary for the size of the puppet kept in it – but shallow. Blaine puts his hand in, pressing down on the floor of the chest, which seems to be secure, but when Blaine looks at it from the outside, it looks as if his hand is only sunk into the trunk a third of the way. Blaine pushes down hard, but the bottom of the chest doesn't budge. He knocks on it. The chest sounds hollow…though not entirely.

"What do you want to do?" a voice asks as Blaine continues to consider the dimensions of the trunk.

"About what?" he asks, without looking up.

"With the puppet," a snarky voice asks. It's Alex – Blaine knows. But he's had enough of cynical interlopers for a lifetime. He couldn't care less what the man wants. He just wants to finish for the day and spend the evening out with Kurt.

"Put him back in the chest…for now," Blaine says, summoning some men on the clean-up crew wearing white gloves to handle the puppet. He waits for Alex to object, except Alex's interests seem to have flipped from Sammy to Kurt – more so than Blaine feels comfortable with.

"Kurt, why don't you head to the car and get started on those sketches?" Blaine suggests, stepping in front of Alex and again blocking his view.

"Alright, Blaine," Kurt says, heading off toward the car with Blaine walking beside him, holding his elbow. Blaine looks back when he hears an aggravated Alex bark, "Pardon me!" but the man is already lost to the crowd, and Blaine can't say that he's not relieved.

"And Kurt…" Blaine adds, opening the door for him.

"Yes, Blaine?"

"Keep the doors locked."

* * *

Blaine calls it quits at six o'clock, when the rented dumpster is full to bursting with drywall, and the clean-up crew has bagged their last load of trash. He watches the U-Haul containing the furniture, Sammy in his trunk, and various collectibles from the upstairs bedrooms drive off to storage.

Slowly but surely the house is being gutted, but it doesn't feel as sad as it did before.

Blaine waits until the last straggler climbs in their car and drives away before he starts peeling the plastic suit off Kurt's body.

"What…Blaine!" Kurt giggles.

"Hurry up, hurry up," Blaine mumbles, tearing the elastic around the ankles so Kurt can step out, rolling it up into a careful ball, and tossing it into the dumpster. "Let's get going."

"Why the rush?" Kurt laughs as Blaine steers Kurt toward the car, opens the passenger door, and lightly shoves him inside.

"Because we're going to be late for our second date." Blaine hops into the driver's seat and buckles in.  
"And I happen to know the perfect place."

Blaine steers the car down the street, which isn't quite as dark or quiet as it's been on previous nights. He sees a neighbor walking a dog meeting another at a mailbox a few houses down. Blaine waves at the two men, who smile and wave back, and Blaine thinks that it would be nice to see this neighborhood come alive.

He drives through the small labyrinth of streets and merges onto the highway, mostly without thinking about it, his mind engrossed with a bevy of confessions that he needs to find the words to say.

"Kurt…" Blaine clears his throat and puts the car on cruise control, "there's something I've been meaning to…well, something I need to ask you."

Kurt tilts his head to look at Blaine.

"What is it?"

"If there…" Blaine rolls his head on his neck, subconsciously stalling, wishing that he could make this thought that's nagging at him go away, that he could pretend that it had never entered his brain. He looks into Kurt's eyes – sees his affection, his trust – and his heart crumples. It wouldn't be fair. Kurt has to know. "If there was a spell to make you…not a puppet, would you do it?"

Kurt's eyes brighten at the question.

"Definitely," he says, as if it were a foregone conclusion.

"What if it meant, not becoming human though?" Blaine asks, detaching himself from the words. "What if it meant…you know…moving on?"

A heavy silence crowds the car.

"Wow," Kurt says, staring out the window. "I…wow, I…why are you asking me this?"

Blaine's teeth lock down around his tongue. He was kind of hoping he could get away without admitting this part.

"Kurt…there's something I need to tell you. Something I probably should have told you earlier."

"Okay, well, please tell me quickly," Kurt says, kicking off his shoes and bringing his legs up beneath him on the car seat. "You're kind of scaring me."

"I'm sorry." Blaine reaches over and pats Kurt's hand. "It's nothing dire. It's just that…I have his journals."

Kurt's expression goes completely blank.

"Whose journals?"

"Andrew's." Blaine says the name like an apology. "I've been reading them, which I probably shouldn't have done and I'm sorry. But I was thinking that maybe the secret to undoing that spell might be written in there somewhere. But then, what if reversing the spell meant freeing you to…you know…"

Kurt stares down the length of the highway, eying the lights of the passing cars speeding by, before he answers.

"I know you think I'd jump at the opportunity to be free from this body and move on, and I probably should." Kurt sighs. "I miss my mom and my dad, and all of my friends. Here on earth, I'm so unsure about my life…" He turns to look at Blaine, whose eyes don't leave the road as he listens to Kurt speak. Blaine – this beautiful boy who came to him from out of the blue, from out of a dream, and who is so willing to give Kurt anything.

Kurt doesn't look forward to leaving him yet.

"But then again, I didn't really get to live my life," Kurt says. "It might be nice to take another stab at it. So, to answer your question, it's something I'd need to think about long and hard before I was sure either way."

Blaine lets out a long breath, unaware that he'd been holding it this whole time.

Kurt's answer is a good one – more than Blaine had hoped for.

Blaine knows it's unfair for him to have expected a definite _no, I don't want it. Let me stay a puppet._

What Blaine needs to do is find a way to make staying with him longer worth his while.

It's another long ride back to the beach house, with Kurt listening to the radio while Blaine occupies his mind with far too many thoughts and far too many rationales. Kurt has stumbled across an AM station that plays mainly music from his era. He sits, fixated on a spot in the joined headlights of the car, letting the familiar melody transport him back to a time that brings him some peace and comfort, which Blaine can tell from the smile on his face.

But Blaine's mind has no peace, only questions that have no answers. Yes, logically, if there's a way to reverse the spell that Kurt and Sebastian are under, then they would move on, but what about Blaine's visions? Nothing he's seen has happened yet, and they almost all take place (as far as he can tell) with a human Kurt, not a puppet Kurt. It was human skin Blaine kissed in those dreams, human lips gasping his name.

Most of those visions came to him before the idea of reversing the spell was even a possibility, so there has to be another solution to this problem.

There has to be another out.

By the time they reach the beach house, Blaine has convinced himself of this.

There is a way to make Kurt human. That has to be the answer, and one of Andrew Smythe's old journals might have it.

Blaine is eager to find it, and as they walk into the house, Kurt breaks off toward the bedroom while Blaine zeros in on the dining room table.

"I'm going to go get dressed," Kurt says with a smile, walking backward toward Blaine's bedroom. "Do you want me to lay out something for you?"

"Would you?" Blaine asks, his hands sliding into his back pockets as he watches Kurt head for the bedroom. "I'll be there in a minute."

Kurt nods and spins around, doing a tiny dance as he enters the bedroom, and Blaine feels his heart lighten. When Kurt is completely out of sight, Blaine heads for the journals. He speculates that a spell to make Kurt human has to be hidden in those pages somewhere. Otherwise, how can he explain all of his visions of a human Kurt – visions that Blaine is positive speak of the future?

Blaine lifts the cloth on the dining room table and peeks underneath, excited at the thought of finding the answer.

There's nothing there – only empty space and hard wood floors.

The boxes with the journals are gone - every single one.

Blaine feels his heart race with panic, and suddenly all of his visions, his daydreams of a future with Kurt, begin to dim.

_What the fu-_

"That was quite a bit of interesting reading you had stored under there," Sebastian says, his bare feet clicking against the floor as he walks across the living room.

A shudder of prickly cold flashes through Blaine's body. He stands up and faces the accusing stare of Sebastian Smythe – hating him…judging him.

"What did you do with them?" Blaine asks, not even ashamed now for having them and keeping them secret.

"It looked like you had every journal my father ever wrote in his lifetime," Sebastian says, starting to circle Blaine like a jackal.

"Sebastian…"

Blaine hears a door open.

"Hey," Kurt says, stepping in among the two, wary of the looks being shot back and forth. "What's going on in here?"

"What made you think you had the right to invade my family's privacy?" Sebastian continues, avoiding Kurt's question.

"Sebastian?" Blaine asks, feeling dread seize hold. "What did you do with them, Sebastian?"

Sebastian crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his chin up, looking down on Blaine like he's no more important than an insect, that this argument they are having is inconsequential.

"I put them where they belong."

Blaine rolls his eyes at Sebastian being purposefully vague. His eyes sweep the room. He eyes Cooper's open bedroom door and ponders whether or not Sebastian would actually drag all those boxes into that room.

If Blaine knows anything about Sebastian it's that he would want those journals – and any other reminder of his father - as far away from him as possible. He'd probably throw them in the East River if he could.

Blaine's eyes stop on the window with the curtains pulled open and their unobstructed view of the curb outside. Blaine usually keeps the curtains drawn, but there they were – thrown open and facing the street. He squints at the view from where he stands and Sebastian smiles wide. Blaine rushes to the window and the first thing he sees are the trash cans lined up against the curb.

"No," he mutters. _He couldn't have…could he?_ Blaine races out of the house, riding a violent wave of nausea out to the curb. He throws open the lids, tipping the grey trash bin over onto the ground. He bends over to peek inside, to make absolutely sure.

Empty. Both of them empty.

He turns back to the house, where Sebastian watches him from the window with a smug grin on his painted, wooden face.

A face Blaine would love to bash his fist into.

He trips over the lid of the grey bin but leaves it lying on the ground in his rush to get back inside.

"You threw them out?" Blaine growls, slamming the door behind him, feeling guilty when he notices Kurt jump.

Blaine wonders how many slamming doors were there in the Smythe household when Kurt was growing up.

"Oh, I didn't just throw them in the trash, tiger," Sebastian sneers. "I tore the pages out of the bindings and ripped them up into little pieces. Some of those pages were no bigger than confetti when I finished with them."

Blaine stares at Sebastian, completely floored. He doesn't know how to react. He feels betrayed. He feels like a confidence has been broken - an understanding they had reached, shattered.

Why does the price of helping Kurt – of potentially falling in love with Kurt - need to be Sebastian?

"Why did you do that?" Blaine asks, storming up to the puppet. "How…how could you do that?"

"They weren't yours to read, Blaine," Sebastian counters in an equally disgusted voice. "Those were my father's private thoughts."

"Bullshit," Blaine bites, nearly spitting in the puppet's face. "You could care less about protecting your father. You and I both know it."

"What about protecting _me_ then, huh?" Sebastian yells. "Don't _I_ matter?" He crowds into Blaine, pushing him back toward Kurt with his body, with the invisible force of his rage. "What did you read about in those journals? Did you read about the way he taught me to be a ventriloquist? How he hit me on the bare back with a switch to keep my lips from moving when I talked? Did you get to the part where my mother went crazy and killed herself? Or let's think - how he paid a five-dollar hooker named Lacey-Sue to take my virginity because he couldn't handle having a fag for a son?"

Blaine sees Kurt take a step back, his eyes dropping to the floor. Kurt knows. He knows about it all.

"No, I didn't read about any of that," Blaine says, refusing to be pushed any further, "and I'm sorry. I really am, but some of those journals were dated after the fire. What if those journals had the answer to making you guys human, Sebastian? What if I could have used them to set you both free?"

_Set you _both_ free._

Sebastian doesn't miss that bit of word usage.

Nice touch.

He wants to curl his lip at it, bare his teeth at it. Blaine is some piece of work - a far better con-man than his old man ever was, and he's got Kurt wrapped around his little finger.

As if Blaine even cares an inch about Sebastian. Blaine is simply using him as leverage. Poor little Sebastian – poor little abused and damaged Sebastian. Kurt might never love him, but Sebastian is still one of Kurt's sore spots, and Blaine is using that to split him and Kurt apart.

Sebastian has no intention of rolling over for the charms of Mr. Blaine Anderson. He has a harder shell than Kurt ever did.

Sebastian's posture doesn't change. He's defensive, hurt, ready for the fight he expects to follow. But his eyes – widening imperceptibly – betray his every emotion. He messed up and he knows it, but he's not about to give Blaine the satisfaction of feeling superior.

If Kurt believes that Sebastian is fine with throwing their one possible chance at true mortality in the trash, then so be it. He'll play the monster.

But Kurt's hurt stare breaks whatever wooden heart Sebastian has, and he looks away.

Kurt puts his hands on Blaine's shoulders and squeezes gently. His hands shake, hard porcelain fingers trembling, pinching Blaine's muscles too hard, but Blaine ignores it. He's worried about Kurt. Blaine doesn't know what emotion exactly is causing those tremors – anger, fear, disappointment?

"You said you'd take me out tonight," Kurt says, pulling at Blaine's shoulder, hiding whatever is coloring his voice by working to calm Blaine down. "So, let's get dressed and go. What do you say?"

Blaine's body settles at Kurt's touch, muscles relaxing until nothing of his anger remains but a knot in his chest - a dull ache that gets tighter with every beat of his heart.

"Glow in the dark mini-golf?" Blaine asks over his shoulder, catching a peek at Kurt's expression as it changes from concern to relief.

"That sounds like the bee's knees," Kurt says, pecking Blaine's cheek and tugging him backward. "Now let's go find something to wear and hit the road. What do you say?"

Blaine nods, glowering at Sebastian, hazel eyes burning as he lets Kurt pull him away to the bedroom.


	14. Chapter 14

Blaine hands Kurt a neon orange miniature golf club and a neon orange ball to match, smiling shyly at the way Kurt looks so adorable in his Ann Arbor Starkid hoodie. The black hoodie is a souvenir from the summer of his sophomore year when his parents took him college hopping, trying to convince him to apply to a more sensible school than NYADA. The hoodie Kurt is wearing represents the last of those trips, to the campus of the University of Michigan.

At that point, after hitting up all the Ivy Leagues with no success at changing his mind, his parents were getting a bit desperate. But the hoodie is one of Blaine's favorites, and he takes it with him everywhere.

It looks spectacular on Kurt. For the sake of remaining inconspicuous, he has the hood pulled up and the drawstrings tugged taut so that the hood sneaks in over his face. With his pale skin and eyes, he reminds Blaine a bit of Kieren Walker from the TV show _In the Flesh_.

Maybe it's eldritch, but to be honest, Blaine has kind of thing for Kieren.

Blaine grabs his own rented neon blue club and ball, pays for their round of golf, and then leads Kurt through the arcade - where the cashier's station is - to the links. Kurt stands before the entrance and looks at Blaine strangely.

"So, we're playing golf _indoors_?" Kurt asks, furrowing his brow. He glances at the door, and then at the tiny club in his hands. "Won't we…break something, or hurt someone?"

"Well, you're not going to hit the ball as hard as you can," Blaine chuckles. "It's negotiating the course that's the challenging part. Haven't you ever played miniature golf before?"

"No," Kurt says with a shrug. "It's a little after my time, I'm afraid."

Blaine doesn't like the way Kurt puts that – _after his time_. But Blaine is determined that doesn't matter anymore. _This_ is Kurt's time now, and Blaine is going to do his best to make it amazing.

"Well, hold on to your hat, sir," Blaine says, opening the door. Kurt peeks in through the door and smiles wide. The room is dark, but it looks vast, like it goes on for miles. Every surface is covered in paint that fluoresces in bright, garish colors. The golf courses, the holes, the flags, the bumpers, the statues and other props all glow. The theme of the room is _Medieval Fantasy_, and every conceivable fairy tale setting crowds the space – castles with dragons poking their heads out of the windows, blowing fire into the air; a sparkling blue lake and, rising from the center, a hand holding a sword; a colorful house covered in candies of all sorts; three bears chasing a girl, with a head of blonde curls, out of a cottage; and a little girl in a red hood skipping through the forest, while a vicious-looking grey wolf peeks out at her from behind a thicket of tall trees.

"Incredible," Kurt breathes as he steps inside, looking around the room, ogling at every painting, his eyes traveling up to gaze at the ceiling above them. The entire ceiling is covered in yellow stars and soaring purple comets. Kurt walks toward a far wall with a painting of a griffin landing in a massive, gnarly tree. Coming from a door in the tree's trunk, life-sized playing card soldiers emerge, led by a bulbous woman in a heart-printed gown, while a Cheshire cat dissolves into just his menacing smile. "It's all so…incredible," Kurt utters.

"I thought you'd like it," Blaine says, watching the wonder on Kurt's face as he investigates the details on a tiny, painted mouse wearing a crown and holding a quilting pin aloft like a sword.

The first time Blaine discovered glow-in-the-dark mini golf, he was twelve. His brother took him. Just like Kurt, he spent a good hour before they teed off looking at all the painted objects, all the intricate drawings. It seemed so magical at first. At some point in the middle of their game, however, an attendant was forced to turn on the regular lights to retrieve someone's car keys from under one of the windmills. Seeing everything under ordinary white light sort of broke the spell for him, and even though the lights went back out and the walls glowed again, the magic disappeared.

The look on Kurt's face slowly brings that magic back.

Kurt reaches an arm out to touch the mouse's proud, majestic face when he catches sight of his hand – bright and glittering unnaturally beneath the black light. He gasps, jerking his hand back.

"Oh no!" he exclaims, ducking his head at the realization that any of his exposed skin will look the same – deathly pale and fake.

"What's wrong?" Blaine asks.

"My skin!" Kurt says. "It looks…you can see…it doesn't look…normal."

"Oh," Blaine says with a smile. "Don't worry about that."

"Don't…don't worry about it?" Kurt holds his arms against him, wrapped tight around the golf club. "How is no one going to be alarmed by this?" Kurt asks, anxious over the current state of his iridescent skin.

"Kurt, we're in one of the biggest vampire wannabe cities in all of the United States. Look around. A lot of teenagers wear super light foundation to look paler than they are." Kurt peeks an eye out from his hood and takes a good look around. There are not many other people there, but a few teenagers in the room playing mini-golf with their friends have glowing pale skin – not to the extent that Kurt's smooth, bisque skin lights up, but definitely something other than the human norm.

"See?" Blaine says as Kurt comes out from hiding. "Kids are probably going to want to _be_ you, especially after the popularity of the _Twilight_ saga."

"The _Twilight_ saga?" Kurt asks, standing up straight and trying to become comfortable with the idea of showing off his skin. "What's that?"

"Long story short, it's a series of books about vampires that sparkle."

"Vampires that sparkle?" Kurt laughs. "I've only seen one vampire movie in my life, and that vampire definitely did not sparkle."

"Well, in _Twilight_…uh, you know what? Never mind. It's really not worth talking about," Blaine replies. "Let's get this game going. Where do you want to start?"

Kurt looks around at the various courses in the room, but Blaine already knows that one in particular has piqued Kurt's interest.

"Let's go to the castle," Kurt says, pointing off in the distant to the huge façade painted to look like grey stone, with a dragon's head swaying left and right from the highest turret, bellowing a recorded roar and breathing painted fire.

"Excellent choice," Blaine says with a slight affectation to his voice. He offers Kurt his arm, which Kurt takes, and leads him over to the castle.

Blaine does his best to concentrate only on having fun with Kurt. He watches Kurt closely as the puppet lines up his shots, tongue sticking out slightly through painted lips, his hips swaying back and forth subconsciously as he prepares to putt. At the fourth hole, after a few passing compliments about his intense _doll make-up_ from a group of high school kids wearing black _Gothic Volunteer Alliance_ t-shirts and Zombie contact lenses, Kurt pulls off his hood.

But as much fun as he's having, Blaine can't help his mind drifting back to those journals – decades worth of Andrew Smythe's personal thoughts shoved into the back of a garbage truck and being driven down to the landfill, on their way to be shredded and burned.

The worst part about the whole ordeal – the part Blaine feels the most guilt over – is that he's slightly relieved that the burden of finding out whether reversing the spell meant never seeing Kurt again is now off his shoulders – if only temporarily. He's still heartbroken because there was a chance – A CHANCE – that those journals held the key to making Kurt human.

Either way, they'd never know.

But there's another burden to his conscience that he's going to need to confront sooner or later.

What does he do with the journals he still has in his possession?

If he acknowledges he did something wrong in keeping the journals in the first place, then he should turn them over to Sebastian and be done with it.

And yet…

"That's when I found out that I had been implanted with the embryo of a mind-sucking alien baby," Kurt says, hitting his ball cleanly into the eleventh hole.

"Yeah," Blaine says mindlessly, catching the tail end of Kurt's sentence. "Wait…what?" His head pops up to look at the puppet when the actual meaning of his words hits him.

Kurt doubles over laughing, clutching his club to his stomach.

"I'm so sorry," Kurt chortles in response to Blaine's quizzical expression. "I couldn't help it. You've been a million miles away for the last half hour. I even had to let one couple play through." Kurt slides up to Blaine using a delicate finger to push the curls from Blaine's forehead. "What are you thinking about so hard?"

It's hard for Blaine to remember with Kurt standing so close, his cool fingers making their way through Blaine's hair, his blue glass eyes flicking ever so subtly to Blaine's lips even though they are filled with concern over Blaine's prolonged silence.

"I just…I feel bad," Blaine says, cautiously winding an arm around Kurt's waist. "I didn't mean to invade anybody's privacy," he explains. "When I found those journals, you guys weren't even talking to me yet. I just wanted to know more about you."

"I understand," Kurt says, resting his hand at the back of Blaine's head, scratching lightly over his skin with his fingertips. "And I don't blame you at all. If they were my journals or my dad's, I don't think I would be bothered. It's just…" Kurt sighs, looking down at where Blaine's arm circles his waist, "you have to understand that things between Sebastian and his dad…they were touchy. Sebastian lost his mom, Mr. Smythe lost his wife, and I'm not sure Andrew was cut out to be a single dad. At that time, men weren't expected to be single parents. Raising children - that was woman's work. Lots of motherless boys ended up on the streets, as thieves, or in workhouses – sent there by their folks when they couldn't afford them or be bothered to raise them. So, when you consider those alternatives, Mr. Smythe wasn't a _bad_ man." Kurt sighs again, resting his head against Blaine's shoulder, his fingertips switching once again to card through Blaine's hair. "Mr. Smythe might have been abusive, but unintentionally so. He was misguided. He didn't think he was doing anything wrong. Heck, nobody in the country would have judged him harshly for most of the things he did. But, things got out of hand, and now Sebastian has to live with those consequences. He's _had_ to live with them for longer than he should have."

Blaine nods, trying to understand, trying to put himself into those two pairs of shoes – Sebastian's and his father's – but walking either path is impossible for him.

"How do you feel about what he did? Getting rid of those journals? Knowing the answers that could have been in them?" Blaine asks, hoping that he's not thoughtlessly opening a painful wound with his question.

Kurt stays silent, rubbing his temple against Blaine's shoulder.

"I'm upset," Kurt admits, "but not for the reason that you think. Sebastian was right. Those journals belonged to him. He had the right to do what he wanted with them… but I think that he did the wrong thing."

"What do you think Sebastian should have done then?"

"I think he should have read them," Kurt says, looking into Blaine's eyes. "I think he didn't understand his father, didn't understand his motivations. Don't misunderstand me. I'm not condoning a single thing that Mr. Smythe did, but I think it's Sebastian who needed to read through those journals for the answers."

"The answers to breaking this spell?" Blaine asks, sighing with regret at the thought.

"No," Kurt says, lifting his head from Blaine's shoulder. "Sebastian needs closure. He needs to know that his father, at some point in his life, really did love him."

* * *

After their game, they drive home in silence – but not a tense silence or a one-sided silence. It is a companionable silence, soundtracked by smooth big band music from Kurt's favorite station on the radio. Blaine looks at Kurt as he sits low in his seat, eyes shut, hands shoved inside his sleeves, a contented smile permanently fixed to his face. Blaine makes a mental note to find some big band music and download it to his mp3 player so that Kurt can listen to it whenever he wants.

Blaine has also decided to let Kurt keep that Michigan hoodie.

They pull into the driveway of the beach house well after midnight. Kurt stirs when Blaine turns off the engine. He yawns, and Blaine wonders if he does so out of habit. Many things about Kurt fascinate Blaine. He's so _human_ in ways that he probably shouldn't be – in ways that he doesn't need to be. In the time they've known one another, which has not been long at all, Kurt has changed. He blinks more when at first he barely blinked at all. The texture of his skin seems more real when Blaine doesn't think too hard on it. His freckles are definitely more prominent. In fact, one or two seem to have popped up out of nowhere. Kurt's lips are painted, but Blaine can see new lines and creases. Blaine is at a loss as to whether these are real, physical changes, or details that had gone unnoticed, because Blaine was certain he had noticed everything about Kurt.

_Absolutely_ everything.

Kurt turns to look at Blaine, the contented smile on his face still visible.

"Are we home?" Kurt asks.

_Home_. It isn't a word that Blaine is necessarily all that attached to, but Kurt makes it sound so beautiful.

"Yeah," Blaine answers, reaching out a hand to brush through Kurt's hair. "We're home." Kurt closes his eyes, humming through his lips when Blaine touches him.

"Can I ask you something?" Blaine asks, combing Kurt's hair with his fingers as he speaks.

"Of course," Kurt says, his eyes shut, the expression on his face one of extreme happiness.

"I've been thinking…" Blaine starts, rolling his eyes at how weak that sounds. It's funny how romantic and erudite he can be through music, but when it's just him, explaining his feelings and his emotions, he tends to sound like a babbling, cliché idiot. "We don't know what's going to happen tomorrow, or in the future…"

"True," Kurt says, still humming quietly.

"But here and now," Blaine continues, "that's all we have…" Blaine blows out a breath. Blaine seems to have lost his point between his own banter and Kurt's humming. Kurt opens his eyes, their clear beauty reflecting back at him underneath the low lighting outside. "What I'm trying to say…or ask, actually, is…"

"Yes, Blaine?" Kurt asks, blinking up at him.

Blaine pauses, lost in Kurt's innocent smile and his look of peace.

"Would you be my boyfriend?"

Kurt's smile is effervescent, but Blaine knows the answer he's about to get won't be a simple _yes_ or _no_.

"That would be…that would be…so lovely," Kurt says, "but don't you think that you'd be limiting yourself?" Kurt's effervescence dims while he speaks. "I mean, I think you know as well as I do that there are some things I won't be able to do with you."

Blaine shakes his head, taking Kurt's hands in his.

"Now that depends," Blaine says with a slight smirk, "are we talking about going out on dates together, because I think we've proven we can negotiate that obstacle."

"Not…entirely," Kurt says, blushing, looking at Blaine's hands.

"Well, if you're talking about sex…"

Kurt sits up straight and crosses his legs, the blush on his face getting deeper as he becomes flustered.

"Kurt, our relationship doesn't have to be about that," Blaine assures him, holding his hands tighter.

"But, wouldn't you…_want_ that?" Kurt asks, looking boldly into Blaine's eyes. "Wouldn't you resent not having it?"

"Don't worry about me," Blaine says. "I have two hands and an Internet connection. I'll be fine."

"Blaine!" Kurt laughs loudly.

"The point is I want to be with you, Kurt. In any way I can have you…as long as I get to have you."

Kurt's laughing peters off and his eyes return to Blaine's face.

"That's probably the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me," he admits, pulling Blaine's hands toward his chest, tugging Blaine bodily closer.

"It's the truth," Blaine says quietly, leaning closer. "You…that's all I want."

"Well, if it's any consolation, I think I can help you with some of the two handed-stuff," Kurt says, his eyes moving from Blaine's darkening eyes to his lips, inching closer.

"And there's kissing," Blaine says, his breath fogging over Kurt's cold, porcelain skin. "I mean, I haven't really kissed anyone but…"

"Yes," Kurt agrees, "I've always been very fond of kissing."

Blaine nods, moving closer, pulling Kurt's hands up to his chest to cover his heart, which pounds like a drum, beating against Kurt's hands – _thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpTHUD_!

Something heavy impacts with the windshield of the car and both occupants jump out of each other's arms. Standing in the doorway is Sebastian, dressed in different clothing from when they left, his wooden arms crossed over his chest, scowling disapprovingly. Blaine looks at the hood of the vehicle and sees a pair of balled-up tube socks resting in front of the windshield.

"So, do you think he wants our attention?" Blaine asks when Kurt eyes the socks. They both look back at Sebastian, his face cross but waving an arm in their direction before he disappears back into the house.

"I'm thinking that might be a yes," Kurt says with a laugh, then mutters, "the jerk," underneath his breath, making Blaine laugh out loud. Kurt reaches for his door handle, but Blaine catches his arm by the elbow.

"Wait a second on that," he says, opening his door and slipping out. He shuts his door, then rounds the car to Kurt's side, and opens the door for him.

"How gallant," Kurt says, stepping out of the car, leaning in to kiss Blaine on the cheek as he passes by. Blaine lets Kurt take the lead into the house, opening the door and gesturing for Kurt to walk inside.

They find Sebastian sitting on the sofa with Abigail curled up beside him. His face is blank. He doesn't look at Kurt or Blaine, but stares at a point between the two of them.

"I…I need your help," Sebastian says, looking extraordinarily put-out by his admission.

"Okay," Kurt says. "How can I…"

"Not _your_ help," Sebastian cuts in, and then deflates into a long sigh. "I need…_his_ help."

"Me?" Blaine asks, looking at Sebastian, then at Kurt.

"Yeah, yeah, I need _your_ help," Sebastian groans. "Don't make this into a big thing."

"Look, Sebastian," Blaine starts, having his own painful confession to make, "before you say anything, I just wanted to let you know that I'm sorry. I should have told you about the journals, and I shouldn't have read them. I'm really sorry." Blaine can hear Sebastian's jaw tighten, the sound of wood grinding against wood setting Blaine's nerves on edge.

"Sebastian?" Kurt says Sebastian's name, and the sound of Sebastian's jaw tightening gets louder until Blaine thinks he can hear a wire snap.

"Well, yippy-skippy," Sebastian says. "You're sorry. Thanks a lump. Are you going to help me out or not?"

Blaine sighs. Sebastian is determined not to like him, and he's going to have to accept that.

"Sure," Blaine says. "What do you need?"

"I'm looking for some…information, and none of your books in your library have it."

"Okay," Blaine says, uncomfortable staring at the puppet who won't look at him while he talks. "What sort of books did you want?"

"Medical books," Sebastian says, "human anatomy books, books on drugs and diseases. Do you have anything like that?"

"Wh-" Blaine starts, but Kurt puts up a hand and shakes his head, asking Blaine not to ask. "I'm sorry, I don't, but…" Blaine reaches beside Sebastian for the television remote. The puppet scoots away quickly to avoid Blaine's touch. Blaine rolls his eyes. "This television has Internet access. You can use it to look that information up."

Sebastian's eyes snap up to look at Blaine, and Blaine can tell that the puppet either doesn't want to admit that he doesn't understand, or he thinks Blaine is lying.

"Look…" Blaine goes through the steps while Sebastian watches. Blaine presses a button on the remote and a line of symbols come up on the bottom on the screen. Blaine points to a symbol which brings up a white screen. Sebastian sits up straight, paying closer attention to everything Blaine does. "So, you go to this bar," Blaine explains, "and type in the information you want. You know, some colleges publish their lab work online, offer classes - if you wanted to, you could take some classes from Princeton, Yale, Stanford, all online…" At the mention of Stanford, Sebastian's eyes narrow at Blaine, but Blaine remains impassive as he continues. He turns the remote over to Sebastian. "Have at it."

"Thank you," Sebastian says with the first hint of something close to an emotion that isn't blatant disgust with regard to Blaine. "You guys can scat now."

"You're welcome," Blaine says, figuring that's as close to polite as he's going to get from him. Blaine turns to Kurt, pulling the puppet into his arms, not concerned with whether it makes Sebastian upset or not. This was _his_ home, and he wasn't going to censor himself to make Sebastian comfortable.

"So, what would you like to do now?" Blaine asks, spinning Kurt around, smiling when he makes Kurt giggle.

"I'm actually kind of looking forward to lying in bed with my _boyfriend_," Kurt says, smiling with the emphasis. "Would that be alright with you?"

"I would say…more than alright," Blaine answers, kissing Kurt on the nose.

"Gag me," Sebastian moans, sending another pair of balled up socks whizzing past their heads.

* * *

_"Why are you doing this?" Kurt asks, ducking behind Blaine who pulls him down to the floor as something heavy whizzes by their heads._

_"Why!?" an angry voice growls as the sound of glass breaking and shattering to the floor fills the room. "Because what do I get? You get each other! You get a life, and I…get…NOTHING!"_

_Blaine shields his eyes against the spray of glass in time to catch something else swing their way. Blaine grabs Kurt around the waist and drops to the floor, shielding Kurt as best he can from impact with the hard ground._

_"It doesn't have to be that way," Blaine yells, looking Kurt over quickly to make sure he's okay before helping him to his feet. "We can help you! We can…we can figure out a way!"_

_"There is no way," the voice says, thick with furious tears. "Not for me." _

_Blaine pushes Kurt behind his body as a tall figure approaches, but without knowing it, they've backed into a corner – trapped as the man in front of them raises his brutal weapon above his head._

_"But if I can't have my happiness," the voice says – flat and determined, "then I'll make for damn sure you don't either!"_

_Blaine flattens his body against Kurt, doing his best to keep Kurt out of reach of the metal poker coming down swiftly toward his head._

_"No!" he screams, catching a single flash of green eyes before…_

Blaine's eyes open wide, his breath coming fast, his chest heaving. He has to blink a dozen times to clear the fear from his brain.

He died. Blaine swore he had just died.

Dreams about death are a hard thing for Blaine to recover from.

Medical science says that a human being can't dream of their own death.

Blaine would like to beg to differ.

His body feels numb, and it's going to take him a moment to convince himself that he's not actually dead.

A look at Kurt's sleeping face helps ground him - brings him back to the present. Kurt has ironically become Blaine's anchor to reality.

A dream - just a dream, like all the others, but this time he wasn't Kurt…was he even himself? It seemed like he was Sebastian protecting Kurt, but he isn't sure. Even trying to recapture that second right before he died, before the world went dark and he woke up, he couldn't make out his attacker's face. He only saw the man's eyes – green eyes.

Blaine can't remember if Andrew Smythe had green eyes or not.

He blows out a long breath over Kurt's head as his breathing returns to normal, his tense muscles relaxing at the feeling of Kurt's body wrapped around his.

His _boyfriend's_ body.

Earlier that morning, while the sky was dark, they had changed into pajamas and climbed into bed. Without any hesitation, Kurt had snuggled into Blaine's chest, wrapped his arms and legs around him, and then the blissful promise of sleep had taken them.

Waking up with Kurt in his arms, even after his horrendous nightmare, was a blessing.

Whatever bad thing might happen the rest of the day, it doesn't matter since Blaine has _this_ happiness in his life – and he wants to hold on to it forever.

But life, as of late, doesn't seem to respect his sleep, his schedule, or his happiness.

He hears a soft scratching, like the sound Sebastian's body had made when he pulled himself across the floor. But this scratching is light, and at the base of his door. Blaine doesn't want to get up. All he needs is for another puppet to show up out of nowhere and reveal itself to him as possessing a human soul.

What would he do with a third?

Blaine slips carefully out of Kurt's arms and rises from the bed, padding across the floor toward the door.

He just hopes it isn't Sammy.

If it is, he's going to punt that puppet straight to Nevada, human soul or no.

That horrid thing about gave him nightmares.

Blaine opens the door slowly, stymied by the image in his head of a living Sammy puppet scratching eerily at his door.

But luckily, it's only Abigail, scratching at the door with one tiny paw. She sits primly on her hind legs and looks up at him, as if he knows why she knocked.

Because if he didn't, why would he have opened the door?

Abigail turns tail and takes off, and Blaine follows. He walks out to the living room, expecting to see Sebastian sitting on the couch, scrolling through the Internet on the TV, but the room is dark and empty, the television turned off, the remote sitting on the couch cushion. Blaine picks up the remote and turns the television on. The search engine is still visible on the screen, and out of curiosity, he looks at Sebastian's browser history. He scrolls up to the beginning of a lengthy list of searches, which terminate somewhere around four in the morning.

Sebastian started out searching human anatomy, systems and organ functions, which led him to a porn site or two that he apparently only glanced at. He looked up medical programs at different schools, but lingered the longest on Harvard, Stanford, and NYU. Then he searched a few things that were more personal. It hadn't dawned on Blaine that he would, but in retrospect, it made sense. He looked up information on their old Vaudeville act – _Andrew and Sons_. He looked up articles about his father – recent articles within the last thirty years - followed by his father's obituary…then his mother's…then Kurt's…then his own. The last hour he spent online he looked at pictures of the Stanford University campus.

Blaine feels himself start to crumble from the inside out. It isn't good to have his heart broken this early in the morning, especially not by Sebastian, but he can't help it.

_He wanted to go to medical school_, Blaine thinks as he turns off the television. He makes this information important, forces himself to remember it. If he can, he has to find a way to get Sebastian there.

He feels a need to make-up for the disappointments of Sebastian's past.

He hears the creak of a door opening and braces himself for the chance that Sebastian will appear, realizing that what he's been doing in the living room could be interpreted as invading Sebastian's privacy yet again. He holds his breath and waits for a telltale frustrated sigh, or the grated clearing of a throat. What he hears instead is the patter of tiny footsteps. He turns towards Cooper's room and sees a little orange puff of fur go streaking out from the cracked open door. Abigail again. Sebastian must have left the door open for her to come and go as she pleases.

Blaine can say anything he wants about Sebastian - about how much he hates his father, how he disregards Kurt, or how Sebastian seems to hate him - but he sure seems to love that cat.

Blaine sits down on the couch and sinks into the cushions. He has another long day ahead of him - so many things to juggle at the house, and he wants to take Kurt out again. His boyfriend. He gets to go on a date with his _boyfriend_. Blaine almost can't believe it. He almost doesn't want to let himself believe it, or he'll get carried away by it. Everything feels so tenuous, caught on a wire that is pulling itself taut, threatening to break. Fate could step in at any time, cut the wire, and this could all end, but Blaine is determined to enjoy it while it lasts.

Blaine looks around the room filling with morning sunlight and spots Kurt's sketch book on the dining room table.

"Crap!" Blaine exclaims, remembering that he had once again neglected to send the house sketches to Cooper. "Ergh!" He grabs at the couch cushions and groans. Well, that's another fifteen phone calls he can look forward to before the start of the day. Abigail, circling the living room to find a place to bed down in the sunlight, leaps up onto the couch. She moves from cushion to cushion, stepping experimentally on each with cautious paws, then steps up onto his lap and curls into a ball. Blaine looks down at the orange cat. She rolls her body around and around until she finds a comfy position and falls soundly back to sleep. He looks at her – the swirling pattern in her fur, the alternating colors of her paws, her pink exposed belly. She's such a calm little animal, so sweet and trusting, which is probably how she won Sebastian's heart. Abigail didn't just need Sebastian – they needed each other. Blaine takes a finger and rubs her belly, and that's when he notices.

Abigail has changed.

He picks up the drowsy thing, cradles her in his arms, and carries her back to his room.

"Hey, Blaine," Kurt says, climbing out from beneath the comforter to sit on the end of the bed closest to the boy carrying the sleeping cat. "Did you have another nightmare?"

"Sort of," Blaine admits, not wanting to mention what the nightmare was about, or all the confusion surrounding it. He'll most likely tell Kurt about it later, but for now, he's more than happy to put this one mystery behind him for the day.

"Well, would it help if I made my boyfriend breakfast?" Kurt asks, smiling shyly, his pretty bisque complexion catching the sunlight and turning a rosy pink.

"Definitely," Blaine says, warming at the sound of that word on Kurt's lips - _boyfriend_. "But first, can you answer a question for me?"

"Anything," Kurt says, crossing his legs and folding his hands in his lap. "Fire away."

Blaine lifts Abigail up higher for Kurt to see. Kurt smiles at the purring cat, who slowly bats the air with her paws. Then suddenly, Kurt's glass eyes open wide and his mouth drops open with a soft click.

"When did Abigail become a real live cat?"


End file.
